


Star, Shine on my Grave

by ILoveDragonsALot



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Action, Ah look, Angst, Anything's legal if you're the Emperor, Ar'alani counting her grey hairs, Arranged Marriage, Author is questioning everything, Canonical Character Death, Did I mention angst, Don't Worry About It, Even human testing, Everyone Needs Therapy, Except no one hangs around to find out, Extremely dodgy deals, F/M, Force Shenanigans, Hearing Voices, Horror, Hurt No Comfort, I had to do so much research for this, I might have made one too, I will seduce you with poetic gore, Is that a crow?, Is that... poetry?, It's Chaf'orm'bintrano plotting, Like bro if you're looking for comfort, MC in a constant state of confusion, New Republic, Oh look Vader's being a terrible person, PTSD, People casually committing mass murder, People trying to outwit the other, Post-Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Sheev Palpatine Being An Asshole, Slow Burn, So much Thrass, Split Personalities, Strangers to Lovers, That conveniently aren't there, The Grand Assassin is actually pretty chill, There's no sequel trilogy here, Thrass sighing a lot, Thrawn is really annoyed, Torture/Gore, Watch me fabricate the entire Chiss culture, Xenophobia, god that hurt, human disasters, it's not in here, what a surprise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26685757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ILoveDragonsALot/pseuds/ILoveDragonsALot
Summary: The Empire has fallen.Once thought to be invincible, the Empire has fallen.But in its place rise new threats, new dangers. The New Republic has become reality, but it will soon fall if strong alliances are not made.The Grysk will show no mercy, and the Yuuzhan Vong are not capable of it.Then, there is an agent of the Emperor left in the ashes of the former era. Imperial dog, half-human, genetic freak; she has many names. But there is one name known to many, one they whisper.Grand Assassin.Beneath it, they'll mutterPalpatine's experiment,but there's no doubt she has more than just a name.She has power, knowledge, and a reach that extends through the underworld of the galaxy.The Chiss Ascendancy could prove to be what everyone needs; they're all too familiar with these unspeakable threats.In a turn of events, the looming war braids their paths together. But none of them really have the same plans, and no one knows where the Grand Assassin's loyalty lies.If not with the Emperor, then who?>An AU where Thrawn never leaves the Ascendancy, and things fall into chaos from there.
Relationships: Other(s) - Relationship, Thrass | Mitth'ras'safis & Original Female Character(s), Thrass | Mitth'ras'safis & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 97
Kudos: 31





	1. Rain Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nucnik13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nucnik13/gifts), [Hydrophius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hydrophius/gifts).



> Heyyy so when gifting this work, I was really worried because "What if they don't like OCs or weird crossovers?" and then I realized I was an idiot. So enjoy!
> 
> Warnings will be at the start of chapters. Beware, there are triggers that you might want to skip.
> 
> So, welcome to this fic that was SUPPOSED to be SHORT. If I'm posting this it's almost finished, but updates won't be scheduled. And don't worry, my other fics aren't abandoned. I just had to write this new, SHINY idea down which spiralled into an AU disaster which in turn spiralled into like a decent novel and WOAH okay I need to learn self-control.
> 
> SPOILERS: I haven't read Chaos Rising! I've only read the sample! So there will be no spoilers for the book. If you see anything in Chiss society that doesn't match with the book it's because I've made most of this up. Enjoy.
> 
> This fic is a combination of Yellow Eyes and Wicked Lies, and Rose in the Mouth of a Viper. But in a later setting.
> 
> Okay yeah and last note, this first chapter is just so I don't have to watch the draft get swallowed up again. I won't post another chapter until I've properly finished the entire fic.

_I am the product of people’s mistakes and decisions. Not my own. But I bear them. I bear them with a crooked back bent double under the weight._

_It has shaped me into a child of war. Of violence. I long for mercy but can give none._

_My hands are chained to the Emperor’s will. Every choice of mine is not my choice at all._

_So how do you expect me to love, when I have felt none? What can I give, if not the advice of pain or battle?_

_How do you learn to love, when a child of war only knows how to burn?_

##  **One Year Ago**

The Grand Assassin stood straight, unmoving, the emotions on her face unable to be seen or predicted. The mask covering the entirety of her head stayed as cold and still as ever.

Outside the bridge and past the transparisteel, Rebel Alliance ships fought desperately to turn the battle bringing fire down on their heads. Scattered white explosions and green turboblaster fire and drifting pieces of durasteel and ship parts all crowded into one section of the empty blackness. The distant stars watched the chaos unfold, death upon death upon death, screaming tearing out of comms and cutting off abruptly as the Empire brought the guillotine down on their necks.

Commander Trassin, hardly out of transfer from a previous fleet, could only wait silently as his superior watched, terrified lest he disturb them, still seething over her refusal to acknowledge him.

He could not remember the last time he had heard her speak.

It was as if there was something only the Grand Assassin could see and it required all her concentration.

The air felt so cold, so still, he could have sworn all the air had been sucked out into space. Absently, if he squinted, he could almost see the enemy’s formation shifting...

Like a krayt dragon disturbed from its slumber, her head snapped around to him. “Focus fire on the closest transport off to port.”

Commander Trassin, his whole body jolting, relayed the order to the crew pits. This crew had far superior training compared to his previous, and their reactions were instant. Almost fearful.

He’d never seen the Grand Assassin, but he’d heard rumours, well, that when she assembled ground assaults she went down there _herself._ Word around the barracks was that the stormtroopers might respect the Grand Assassin, but they were also terrified of her. Some said that she could see shots before they came, could sense a traitor within a thousand men. It was obviously exaggerated, he hadn’t heard such ridiculousness since people would say Vader had once been a Jedi-

The targeted transport blew apart in a fantastic explosion. A plume of yellow tore the thing in two, and a collective gasp rose from the crew pits. The brilliant flash flickered over the bridge, and Trassin needed a moment to recover.

_What in all nine-_

The Grand Assassin spoke again. “Officer Krisopaga, lock onto the same model off our starboard side with the tractor beam. Manoeuvre it into the middle of the rebel’s formation. Officer Lii, divert turboblaster fire to ensure that the transport is not hit.”

Two young voices answered in unison. “Yes, ma’am.”

Commander Trassin blinked away the spots in his eyes. “Grand Assassin, what is going on?”

She turned to him, her thoughts impossible to figure out. The shimmering black cape around her shoulders, glittering with metallic blue and green, concealed any clues as to her stance or worry. So far, her voice had given away nothing.

“There are two transports in this fleet that are carrying explosives. My sources could not tell me which two, but their change in formation has betrayed their use. Now that I know which of the remaining ships carries their unseen weapon, it can be used against them.” She paused, and he had the frightening sensation of being analyzed. “I would like you to remember, Commander, that a trap can often be turned against the one who set it.”

An uncomfortable feeling crawled up his neck. He brushed it off with his hand casually. His mouth opened to scathingly respond that yes, he had taken strategy in the academy.

The Grand Assassin turned back to the viewport and in one chilling moment of silence, ordered: “Deactivate the tractor beam and fire.”

The transport had drifted towards the rebel fleet, and now that he looked he could see some of the other ships were trying to move away, but it would mean compromising their position- the transport tore them apart. He was blinded by the ball of fire that engulfed the ships around it. Distantly, he felt the floor beneath his feet shift and rumble as the rebel’s command ship was shoved onto starboard, flames and debris splayed out its port side.

She hummed to herself as if she hadn’t just ripped a fleet to pieces. “Now that their weapon is gone, they will likely attempt to jump when they get clear. Navigational Officer Narisi, signal our Interdictor to jump to the stated coordinates. As soon as they enter realspace, they must activate their interdiction field.”

Another voice, clearly from the Outer Rim, acknowledged. Officer Narisi began talking calmly into a headset, and almost immediately, Trassin felt the floor beneath his feet shift again.

Narisi exchanged a few more words with the new arrival and stated: “The _Clypeus_ has engaged their interdiction field and are awaiting further orders, ma’am.”

“Inform the _Clypeus_ to shift half a kilometre in front of and beneath the _Ice Tempest._ I will contact the rest of the fleet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Commander Trassin’s anger blazed against his fear. Why was _he_ being ignored? He should have been in command of this ship. _He_ should have been the one to interact with the bridge crew. Why should he be here if the Grand Assassin was taking all the glory?

He barely noticed that the arm the Grand Assassin was holding out in front of her had lit up with several holograms.

Trassin strode quickly to her side. This close, he could almost feel icy claws dipping sharply into his skin.

“Captain Polidry and Captain Salinda.”

A middle-aged man and woman both saluted briefly. “Grand Assassin.”

The woman, a heavily built human with a curly mop of hair and chocolate skin, asked: “Orders, ma’am?”

“Push the attack. Regarding prisoners, only those of high rank should be taken alive. The rest, such as pilots and common crew, must be terminated. As you will have seen, two transports were laden with explosives. There are no others. Both the _Hurricane_ and the _Avalanche_ must slowly advance the pincer. Do not follow any Rebel Alliance cruisers or fighters that attempt to escape. I or my officers will notify you of any changes. In present, continue.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they both said, and the holograms disappeared.

Trassin stared at where they had just been. He hadn’t even been introduced. Was he only there for the hell of it? For formality?

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Why aren’t you finishing the rebels? Their shields can’t take any more.”

_Just obliterate the scum. Why are you waiting?_

If she heard the anger in his voice or was irritated by his lack of address, she didn’t show it. “What stops them from using themselves as weapons? Their shields do not matter then, whether they are compromised or not.”

Her calm frustrated him further. “So you’re just going to sit there and wait for their ships to fall apart as we crawl across space?”

“Yes.” She turned and walked past him. “Send out a call for our TIEs to target engines and hyperdrives. They are not to target bridges or command decks at this time.”

He almost missed the _“Yes, ma’am”_ this time. _She’s a coward. My superior is a coward._

Commander Trassin froze when he felt that prickle along the back of his neck again, but this time it seemed stronger. Sharper. He could almost hear the air cry out in soft whispers.

“Do you resent my strategy, Commander Trassin?” the Grand Assassin asked.

The cold, still air became a little thinner. “Of course not, ma’am,” he ground out. “This battle couldn’t have gone any better.”

Two strides and she towered over him. The blue eye markings on her mask stared down at him icily. She was _tall._

He suddenly felt very, very small.

“Do you know why you were transferred to the _Ice Tempest?”_ she asked flatly.

The question caught him off guard. “No.” His thoughts caught up. “I mean, yes. The previous commander was killed, and I was the best replacement.”

“Chsh.”

The scathing sound made him flinch. His cheeks burned as if she had slapped him.

“Do you think you were the _best_ choice?” she asked, that tone still calm, but danger lurked darkly behind it.

“Well,” he said, regaining some of his composure. “Why else would you pick me?”

“Do you think _I_ picked you?”

He stuttered. “I- I- I mean, yes. You needed another commander.”

The shimmering greens and blues glittering along where the light hit her cape were no longer beautiful. They were distracting. They were even disarming, because the creature beneath the cape and the black armour would not be a pretty one.

He could hardly imagine what she looked like under that mask.

“How foolish of you. I would not choose someone whose rank is determined by the position of his father and not the number of brain cells in his head.”

The crew pits seemed very far away. So distant the silence was choking him. “My father is a brave man, unlike you! You’re just some- some-”

“Someone who had no time for petty children. If you don’t have anything useful to say, I suggest you pull yourself together and focus on more important matters.”

“More _important_ matters? Why am I even here? You’re in command of this warship. I haven’t even been able to do anything. How am I supposed to ascend the ranks if-”

“You’re here because an admiral was so desperate to get rid of you he offered me a favour in exchange for your recruitment. Don’t think you’re important, because you’re not,” the Grand Assassin replied flatly.

The anger dropped off his face, replaced by disbelief. “Admiral Opas called for my transfer? He called _you?”_

Realization dawned.

“But… he couldn’t demote me without my father coming down on him, could he? So he called you. Because my father can’t touch you. And because the _Ice Tempest_ is off all official records.”

He had the awful feeling she was smiling under that mask.

Something crept into her tone, something that was somehow more dangerous than before. “You cannot beg your father to help you escape this one. You have one chance to redeem yourself, but after that...”

Behind them, the flashes of bright green turboblaster fire sparkled in space and TIEs danced between the remaining handful of cruisers and fighters.

 _How dare she talk to me like that._ His lip twisted down, the hands clasped behind his back turning white with the tension of holding them together. Trassin’s youthful eyes were stony, cold, and swirling with rage. _I’ll spread rumours, work with her enemies, tell my father- she’ll wish she had been nice to me._

“How unfortunate.”

It came out of nowhere.

A blur connected with his jaw. He went down hard, the world spinning around him in smears of white and grey. He stared at the ground numbly, the cold digging into his hands from the floor.

She hadn’t moved.

“We’ll see where that gets you.”

His eyes were glued to the ground, his mouth hanging open as he took shallow breaths. Pain ached through his jaw and into his temples. His whole face throbbed. “And where will that get me, huh?”

“Under the ground with the last commander who tried to betray me.”


	2. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. The fic still isn't finished. But hey! I just had to.
> 
> And I should probably clarify that Thrawn NEVER goes to the Empire. I've put it in the summary but just in case, I'm saying it here too. I had an oopsie moment. And Outbound Flight wasn't a thing, either. That's why Thrass is still alive. So humans are really, really new to Chiss, and having them in the Unknown Regions is a big, fat NO-NO.
> 
> Thanks so much to Qcean_Lmai for being the beta for this chapter! You're amazing! (I couldn't help myself, I had to keep writing Mitth'ras'safis instead of Thrass.)
> 
> Enjoy!

##  **Present Day**

Mitth’ras’safis pressed a hand to his head with a heavy sigh. He still couldn’t believe the Patriarchs had authorized this. He had an even harder time comprehending why they had accepted the New Republic’s ‘peace offering’.

And why the Ascendancy had responded in kind.

Last of all, what pained him the _most_ was not quite that his brother had been _their_ peace offering, but that the two were to be married as a symbol of the treaty between the Chiss Ascendancy and the New Republic.

Arranged marriages were fairly common between members of the Ruling Houses or those wishing to be adopted, but to have his brother, Mitth’raw’nuruodo the youngest commander in the history of the Ascendancy, bonded to an _assassin…_

Mitth’ras’safis had never met this assassin, nor was its presence displayed. It was kept out of sight and out of mind, in the depths of prison and under the secure watch of many guards. There was a small device in its neck that kept it under control, and another that released drugs when needed into its system to dull its so-called ‘Force’ powers.

He had been skeptical of these abilities the moment he had heard of them, but inspection of the various files the New Republic had provided convinced him otherwise.

On one hand, he should have been honoured that such trust had been placed upon his people.

On the other, he was greatly afraid.

Thrawn would be able to handle himself. But to control a human of that power… perhaps ‘human’ was too generous a term. Some would say freak. Other more sophisticated individuals would say experiment. But neither descriptions conjured up a pleasant image, and he had no holos to replace the void that haunted his mind on its appearance or aura. His political opponents always had a face, but this was not the same.

However, what he did have were documents. On the night he had received them, he had stayed up for days, neglecting his sleep, poring over them with such intensity he could visualize some of the words with pinpoint accuracy.

His eyes still burned from the strain.

It, by all means, should have been uncontrollable. But it seemed that a small time before the New Republic had overthrown the Empire, it had willingly surrendered to them after a brutal defeat, aiding in their efforts to dispose of Emperor Palpatine and his followers. This feat had excused the assassin from public execution, but its past deeds were far too dark to cover over, so it spent its time under strict control.

The details were somewhat murky, something he expected, but his intrigue had been stoked up to a high flame.

The whispers of this ‘Grand Assassin’, the ‘Shadow of the Emperor’, the scourge that inflicted death upon rebels and insurgents, the person chained to his rule like a domesticated beast, was not so loyal after all.

Or perhaps never was.

Mitth'ras'safis still doubted it, reviewing the atrocities it had carried out in the Emperor’s name. Both selective assassination and the complete purging of large groups.

And with his recent knowledge of humans, at a very young age.

He theorized it was more likely a change of heart. Someone who had been programmed into obedience was more inclined to be convinced to turn rather than having kept hatred throughout conditioning.

Yet, despite all this information, there were still many questions Mitth'ras'safis needed answers to. Why had the assassin been genetically engineered? Why did it find particular interest in the eyes of the Emperor, the ruler of more than half a galaxy?

_And what were its plans once it fell into Chiss hands?_

There were five rotations until the former Grand Assassin would be presented before the Ruling Houses, or as it would now likely be addressed, _Shaira’deri’son._

While to an outsider a bond between an assassin and an intelligent commander of the Expansionary Defense Fleet of two very different worlds appeared as madness, there were some important points that needed to be considered.

The Chiss were too proud to admit it, but they needed help. The Grysk had been stretching their forces thin for several years, but now that the Yuuzhan Vong had arrived, they were in more serious trouble than any would openly acknowledge. The New Republic had massive ships preserved from the fallen Empire, more than they could ever hope to need, and the ability to produce many more. It was the wisest choice to create an alliance with the new government.

However, because the Ruling Houses were more distrustful of one another than ever, they couldn’t just send out a plea for warships and upset the power balance between the Houses. Nor would their pride allow it.

So the Ruling Families came to an agreement that instead of buying or acquiring the warships, they would exchange one thing for another as an entire people. And that was when the New Republic’s intriguing prisoner came to light.

It had been a peace offering from a paranoid government that had barely just scraped themselves together. The exchange of a valuable prisoner with a reputation such as the Grand Assassin was a tremendous show of respect and trust. That it was now in their possession alleviated many of the fears circulating around the Chiss superiors, as it could also be a powerful enemy. But it was not just what it represented that the Chiss were interested in.

It was that the assassin possessed Third Sight.

That, and more. If they owned its freedom, they could learn whatever they needed. Commander Thrawn was a mere formality, a leash that would allow the Ruling Families to acquire such a priceless resource.

Thrawn would simply be the one to groom it to the Patriarchs' standards.

Mitth’ras’safis was just as interested as everyone else to see how that progressed. Not only was his brother marrying the equivalent of a viper constantly poised to strike, but Thrawn’s constant awareness would likely make it impossible for it to kill or even manipulate him, which meant he’d have to put up with it until one of them died.

_Ah yes, then there are other matters._

The Ascendancy would also have to make sure the _assassin_ stayed alive, meaning Thrawn needed to be a guard against any dark thoughts that manifested in its mind. And there certainly would be, considering it had done _terrible_ things all Chiss, even the harshest, would pale to.

Guilt lay with all military commanders, he had learnt so from Thrawn who had sometimes opened up to him about it, but he had never met an assassin. The Ascendancy frowned down upon such acts of aggression and savagery.

Spying was different. Though he doubted it would be utilized to that point, Shaira’deri’son might one day change such missions for the better.

But now Mitth'ras'safis was being optimistic.

It would hate its fate.

Guessing from what he knew of assassins, their loyalties lay on whoever dictated their actions. If it wasn’t true for this creature, he doubted it’d be alive. Even _he_ knew the Emperor was a tyrant. If he could order a child to kill targets for him, then he wouldn’t have any issues with turning on it once its usefulness was spent.

Mitth'ras'safis felt the disgust building in the back of his throat. Humans were savages. Chaotic and violent. Attacking whenever the opportunity presented itself. In his research, he had even found that assassins were _common._

He was not looking forward to teaching it what it had to learn before it was taken before the Aristocra and the Syndicure to be evaluated. But he had his orders, distasteful as they may be, and his loyalty to the good of the Ascendancy would come before everything else.

Even if it meant dooming Thrawn to eternal vigilance.

Mitth'ras'safis was certain his brother and the rest of the Chiss Ascendancy could handle one half-human.

His aide slipped through the door and bowed politely. “The New Republic’s convoy has landed in the hangar, Syndic Mitth’ras’safis.”

He took a deep breath. “Very good. Have the guards summoned to the pilot’s briefing room. Their refreshments have already been prepared. For privacy reasons, only Shaira’deri’son must be received through this room.”

 _“Syndic,_ the assassin-”

“-Will be escorted by our guards. It is being transferred to us, it is only proper we receive it as such.”

His aide bowed, his young face showing careful concern. “Of course, Syndic.”

Then he was gone.

Mitth’ras’safis rose gracefully to his feet, smoothing out his traditional Syndic clothing. _Proper,_ indeed. The assassin was fortunate it was still alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you can probably tell by now, the Chiss are hella xenophobic.
> 
> When figuring out Cheunh, I needed the language to reflect their xenophobic attitude. So instead of things being based around masculine and feminine, such as in Spanish, I based it around animate and inanimate. So you've got he/she/them as one, and it/they as the other. So when referring to aliens such as humans, the Chiss typically use 'it' instead of referring to them as actual people. This act of 'dehumanization' (or dechissization?) means other races, to the Chiss, are nothing more than objects. Similarly, in the use of the word 'of', there are two choices. 'Ce' is the inanimate version, used to refer to something like a board game: such as the sentence 'a game **of** strategy.' 'Bah' is the animate version, used to refer to something like 'a Chiss **of** the House Mitth.'
> 
> Because Shaira is only 'half-human,' this means like she is considered by the Chiss to be even lower than a human, due to her position as nothing more than an experiment. For the Ascendancy to accept her as a gift, insulting as it might be, shows just how desperate they are.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you for reading!


	3. Haunt Me, I'm Still the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The demons never go away.
> 
> I hate the faces they wear.
> 
> WARNING:  
> Gore, violence, suicidal thoughts hinted at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ya I'm still here. Barely, but still here. And I'm still not finished argghhhh. But you guys definitely deserve another chapter, and I might as well post one before January comes around.  
> This might change later on because my perfectionist self sometimes makes violent appearances, but this is pretty much the final copy. I hope you enjoy!  
> :D  
> :D

_“People can do far worse things than kill you.”_

_That was something I had always understood from the moment I could grasp strategy, tactics and emotion._

_What I failed to understand was how cruel that curse was, how painful its grasp was, and how brutal its heart could be. Of course, I understood pain. Rage. Terror. I knew they could be utilized, used against a person, from the day two weeks after I turned ten years old._

_No one ever stopped to explain it to me. My questions were never answered. I wondered why someone would ever want to cause another person pain, to see them suffer._

_I later learned there were many reasons._

_Fear was the first one that stood out to me._

_It is confused with respect and authority. Some believe that to be respected, others must fear your power and abilities, and to fear the consequences that might befall them. But knowing from what experiences I have had with my friends, that was not true. Respect and fear are not the same._

_Many have tried to bend that fact. Many have tried to enforce otherwise, attempting to twist my thinking. They threaten you with death while still keeping you alive to believe it is worse than what your captors are already doing to you. All for respect and loyalty._

_But I have been tortured many times. I have screamed until I can no longer speak. I have cried until I am no longer capable of seeing past my despair._

_My answer was the same each time, sometimes by thought and sometimes by voice: although they may have my terror, they shall not have my loyalty. My resolve can break, shatter, be torn into a thousand pieces until no one else can receive my loyalty either. But my mind will not be moulded or deceived by something I know to be false._

_My answer is still the same._

_I will not yield._

##  **Present Day**

Shaira Derison let her mind slip into careful consideration, sixteen presences glittering in her mental vision, blind to her surroundings. They were all familiar, the same guards who had escorted her over many grounds, usually for when she was requested by the leaders of the New Republic.

Her captors had been rather civilized, considering the deeds she had wreaked upon the once-rebels and criminals alike.

She was not accustomed to being shown mercy.

But it always had a cost.

Perhaps they had finally decided what they were going to do with her.

She had been confined for eight months, with nothing to do but try and run from her problems on a track she knew by heart.

It never worked.

How many times had she woken, screaming, sobbing, terrified that that black mask was hovering just in the corner of her eye? How many times had she lapsed into a drugged-like state, unsure of up or down but somehow convinced that she was still strapped to an interrogation chair, white sparks spattering along her arms, her throat raw from shrieking?

Shrieking until the pain blurred into pools of red and black. Until it dripped down the walls like poison. Until all the colours she knew smeared into one long strip of grey, grey that drowned her in her sleep, grey that painted every corridor, grey durasteel of prison cells and broken minds.

Now, that was likely going to be over. They were travelling through empty space, void of life and emotion. The guards were quiet; the shimmering blue of hyperspace often had that effect.

Their minds did not tell her much, other than they were almost at their destination. Strong purpose resonated off each one, and if she could see their faces, they would be grim, even slightly fearful.

Of her or their intentions, it was difficult to tell.

Shaira kept her thoughts silent, as silent as the people around her. The breath of the two on either side of her whispered in her ears, her awareness drifting to the binders holding her wrists together tightly. The bulky metal rubbed against the device lodged firmly in her wrist, its shape failing to mould into her skin.

After the panic had subsided from being dragged out of her cell, it had left her with emptiness as icy as the void outside.

_I wonder what it’s like to die in space._

Cold. Almost as cold as the seventeenth mind on this ship.

She didn’t have the heart nor the confidence to enter his mind. He would almost certainly notice if she dug too deep, and that would break the lie she had been keeping for the past eight months.

Shaira had been drugged. Every day from the start of those eight months, that small device on her left wrist released a set amount of sedative, one used on Force users, to keep her mind and powers dull.

Of course, they hadn’t realized her genetic modifications meant that the drug had only been effective for an estimated ten rotations.

After that, things had almost returned to normal, and the whispering that had been cut off from her thoughts for a merciful ten days came back, just as strong, and taunted her.

She couldn’t recognize all the voices, but she knew what they had become.

She had sealed their fate.

It had surprised many that she had been kept alive this long. Considering what had happened to everyone else high in the Empire.

_Not for much longer._

It had been due for a long time. First, she had thought the Emperor would have killed her the moment she had met him, not long after she had been violently ripped from her home, her place of familiarity. After that, she then assumed Vader or one of his Inquisitors would finish the job. But as the days dragged into months, and the months into years, she had realized that she wasn’t going to escape that easily. She had been brought before the Emperor, and there was a purpose as to why.

With the Emperor now certainly dead, and his known projects destroyed, his legacy had ended.

Except for her.

Shaira Derison was his last existing project. What hurt the most wasn’t that she could never go back to the past, to when things were different. No. Her future had no hope of peace in either place, that of where she once had been and where she was now.

It was that what Palpatine had always wanted had been successful. She had killed and maimed thousands. Hundreds of thousands of people. All to strengthen his reign.

The seventeenth mind flickered violently, and she pushed back on the conflict that threatened to swallow her.

Nick. Nick was his name, a name she had tried to forget for a while. A very long while.

The universe hadn’t let him get far, as with most things.

He was the only person on this ship and in the escort that she really knew. And vice versa.

That was what scared her.

They’d had a bond, once.

Before the Emperor had ripped it in half.

Before she’d been forced to choose between family and friends. _Who would live? Who would die?_

In the end, neither had really escaped. Such was the way of things when evil was involved.

Shaira squeezed her eyes shut against the memories, but she could still see them. Beneath her eyelids.

_The razor claws that had torn through the tips of her fingers extended, still dripping from her fight with Nick. She dug them into her palms, bright red blood welling up around them like bursting flowers._

_She laughed, the gruesome sound echoing. “Our hearts might be black, but we still bleed red.”_

_Shaira had him by the throat before he could move._

_His hazel eyes widened in terror, hands gripping her wrists in vain._

_“You should have killed me,” she hissed, gaze swirling with vivid yellow and smouldering emotion. “You should have kept your promise.”_

_She threw him easily, Nick smashing face-first into the floor. Fergus’s body lay in a bloody pool behind her, forgotten._

_He rolled over and leapt to his feet, fear morphing into rage. “You’re just like Vader.”_

_Nick lunged. Her hand snapped up and tore a hole in his face, claws splitting flesh. Her knee slammed into his gut. He fell again, red watercolour streaming down his cheek, splattering the floor._

_“I didn’t want you to die,” she whispered, hatred and disgust and rage and fear bubbling beneath her skin, burning in her skull._

_She kicked him as he tried to get up._

_“I didn’t want you to DIE!” she shouted, stare blazing in a craze. “I PROTECTED you!”_

_He spat at her. “Go to hell.”_

_A ripple of the Force wrapped around him, constricting like a dark snake. He screamed in pain._

_She smiled cruelly. “We’re already there.”_

Her jaw clenched as tears threatened to fall. She’d been so foolish to think she could ever fix the wounds torn across the people she had cared for.

As if it would help her, she’d stopped caring a long time ago.

But look where it had gotten her.

The black visor covering her sight was pointless, but she wished she could take one last look at Nick’s face to remember just what she’d done before she died.

Shaira didn’t try to lie to herself. It never worked.

Her choices were her fault, her _responsibility._ What she hadn’t done and what she had done would not be forgotten. What the _Emperor_ had done would not be forgotten. Not when her tongue ran over the lengthy canines in her mouth. Not when she could feel claws sitting on the insides of her fingertips. Not when she could feel the strength coiled in her body whenever she shifted in her seat.

And certainly not when these elite guards were tasked to kill her if she tried anything dangerous, if she tried to escape.

The New Republic didn’t want to deal with an assassin while they were clearing out the last remnants of the Empire. She could restart the Emperor’s plans.

She snarled at the absurdity of it all. She’d rather die than lead an army again.

_And your wish has been granted, after all these years._

She tried to visualize the last place she had seen a sky full of stars, and could not recall it.

At least Shaira would die with their cold flames to light her grave.

An icy breath filled her lungs.

_I would have thought they’d use a crueller torture to end my life._

Her head jerked up.

The ship jolted. The rattle clacked her teeth together, and she felt someone grunt.

“Kriffing hyperspace.”

Nick’s cool voice cut over him. “Language, Kiron.” There was the slightest hesitation. “Be alert. Good impressions are useful for our connections.”

Shaira’s thoughts paused. _Connections? Political or military? Were people going to_ watch?

She considered briefly, her eyes narrowing.

 _No._ Nick’s tone felt off in a different way, not as with guilt or fear. Uncertainty, perhaps, or a measure of informed worry.

She turned her head towards him. Felt his hard gaze travel over her hidden face.

He inhaled. “Her restraints and visor must be off before we exit.”

Her curiosity smouldered like a small flame, fanned by growing terror. Perhaps if she had been several years younger she would have given in and reached further out, into the abyss.

Alas, she had been tortured too well for such impulsiveness.

The urge to snort was also tempting.

The tightness holding her chest was savage with its grip, its claws digging a little deeper with every passing second. Her friend, or once-friend Max, would have been a welcome relief.

Unfortunately, assassins were supposed to have a cool façade at all times, no matter the situation, and Maker help them if they were _scared._

She still couldn’t draw on the Force for peace, not while Nick’s attention lay on her. 

He was fairly untrained with the Force and didn’t care much for swinging around lightsabers, Shaira had shown him just what happened when someone used those for the wrong reasons, but he was attuned to _her._

They’d known each other since Nick was five and she three. From there, they had forged an inseparable bond. A teacher or student who knew them even a little would see one and expect the other to be nearby. With Nick’s noticeable social skills, he had soon acquired a group of friends, and though they were skeptical of Shaira’s presence at first, it didn’t take them long to warm to her.

Max was the most carefree of them, seconded only by Corban. Max was rather intelligent, despite his love for a lot of somewhat inappropriate slang and running headfirst into bad situations of his own creation. He was the type of person that would grab an electric fence to see how much it hurt and then would dare everyone else to do it afterwards. He never failed to make Shaira bellow with laughter.

_Had._

Corban was twin brother to Korah. If you wanted random, completely unrelated humorous information, Corban was your guy. He also liked to make interesting observations, that though partially reasonable, were not appropriate to the situation. Joking about fatal diseases when someone was feeling sick was not a good choice, not when travelling to the hospital had genuinely been considered.

Korah was more reserved but never hesitated to call his brother out on his stupidity. He got a lot of enjoyment in seeing Corban fall over or get scolded by a teacher. Though he wasn’t evil, he could be a little vindictive. If you pranked him, it was guaranteed you would need to watch out for your life lest he put itchy-powder in your gloves. While Shaira had never made that mistake, Max certainly had.

Korah also had a fondness of changing someone’s phone settings to Japanese.

Then there was Ethan, who would jump to the worst conclusions immediately. He was not someone you talked to for encouragement. And he was thoroughly, definitely, certainly paranoid. If he heard a noise, he would never fail to invent some horrid story about how that one person he passed on the footpath had taken offence and was coming back to exact revenge. Ethan was also very sensitive, and no one had the heart to tease him on anything other than his extremely neat handwriting and his constant overthinking.

Adam was the bluntest of the lot, sometimes even managing to earn a disbelieving look from Shaira. He called _everyone_ out, especially teachers, and found some sort of strange enjoyment in proving nerdy individuals wrong. And he never _ever_ forgot an argument. He would interrupt a conversation on a completely different subject just to continue an argument from a week ago with a new piece of information he’d found at 2:00 am in the morning while he was attempting to ignore his responsibilities. 

Adam was also startlingly good at keeping grudges.

Nick and Adam were best buds. Although he was tense in group situations, especially with foreign people, Adam actually had a wicked sense of humour reserved for the people closest to him. Shaira had been more than a little traumatized from some of his unexpected remarks. Adam was also kind at heart, and if he noticed you weren’t joining in the conversation, he’d try to include you, provided he tolerated you. It had taken Shaira a while to see that side of him. 

He was very good at pretending he didn’t care.

Nick… he was one of the closest people to Shaira. He was always there. _Always._ Though he could be a little smug and more than a little quick to anger, Nick never failed to improve a situation or take command of it. He was a natural leader and drew people in like moths to a light. He was pretty much the translator between Shaira and the rest of his friends. Many of them joked there was more between them than just understanding.

Shaira was too blind to notice something like that even if she tried.

But it was far too late now.

She felt his gaze again, and the sensation cut deep. Once, it had been warm.

_Never again._

In no way could she blame him.

One of the guards wrenched the black helmet off with a hiss.

The ship was lowly lit. She drew in a deep breath, scents rushing in onto her tongue. _Fear._ _New armour. Cleaner?_

 _They want to make an impression,_ she theorized internally. _But to whom?_

The red guards on either side of her backed away a little. The boldest, a tanned man with massive hands and a suspicious glare, looked at her as if asking for a response.

“I’m hardly in a position to harm you,” she said smoothly, her mismatched eyes of pale amber and tar-black meeting his challenge calmly. Not that rage would be easy to evoke, she’d spent much of her time working on peace.

Something other than emptiness. _Anything_ other than emptiness.

It hadn’t been as effective as she wanted, or perhaps _hoped,_ but it was better than when she’d first been imprisoned. She couldn’t afford the Dark Side’s call again, not if she wanted to hold her fragile sanity together.

Not that there was much to keep.

She glanced over to Nick, her face a mask, and re-noted his eyes. She’d always had an interest in eyes, something no one could torture away. His were hazel, greyish-green at the edge and sinking into dark brown. Under the pupil in the iris, there was a small flick in each eye. Bright greenish-blue and glittering.

It was the first thing she had seen when she had first met him. It was impossible to ignore even now, but it had become icy like the walls he built up around himself. Shaira could see him remembering something painful even now.

She couldn’t meet his gaze easily anymore.

His stare burned over her skin. “Leave us,” Nick ordered. “I’ll be with you in the hold shortly.”

The two guarding the entrance to the cockpit shared a hesitant glance, stances rigid. Their hands gripped their electro-pikes tightly. The others sitting, strapped to chairs, unclipped themselves.

Kiron would have objected had Nick not sent him a sharp glare.

“Yessir.” 

They rose smoothly. A glint of red armour and they were gone.

The last to brush past Shaira were the two door-guards. Neither spared her a musing.

Nick and Shaira were alone together.

He finally turned to look at her, his hazel eyes cold and sharp like the empty void outside. “It’s been a while.”

Her voice was soft. “It has.”

“Miss me, Grand Assassin?”

It felt like someone had kicked her in the gut. Outwardly, she didn’t react. _“Don’t_ call me that, Lieutenant.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, his arms folding over his chest tightly. “You always said: _Once an assassin, always an assassin._ Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind?”

Her gaze drifted casually over to the doors leading to the cockpit, the frail lights casting deep, spiralling shadows. _Too easy to render him unconscious and take out the pilots, vent the hold… And then I’d be able to escape._ “No.”

“To be honest, I still can’t believe you were the one to burst through my prison door back when the Empire was still a thing,” Nick said. “But life is full of surprises.”

She let out a quiet breath. “I wasn’t going to leave you rotting in my mistakes.”

His eyes sparked and flickered with rage. As if the creature lurking there had finally broken out. Shaira winced as the flames scorched her mind. _“Your_ mistakes? Do you think _you_ were the _only_ one who made mistakes?”

_Was it selfish to say I was?_

Shaira paused, breaths billowing out in white clouds. “No. But mine were the ones that tore everyone apart.”

His arms, folded tightly over his chest, tensed. “I tried to kill you.”

“I deserved-”

“You were _fifteen,”_ Nick cut in. "And I don't care what you wanted me to promise."

_You should have kept it._

Memories swirled in her eyes. Red, red, red. The mask snapped back over her face. “I killed Fergus.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Nick hissed, as if trying to reassure himself. _“_ They screwed with your head. The Emperor didn’t leave you much to pull back together. Or any of us.”

_As if that's an excuse._

“I _killed_ Fergus with my _own_ two _hands._ My age didn’t matter, I knew exactly what I was doing.” She flashed to her feet, looming over him. “To anyone watching, that was _definitely_ my fault.”

Shaira bared her long teeth, bright white glinting under the dim lights.

“I used to be scared of you.”

That snapped the anger off her face. She pulled back, unreadable. “When?”

“A couple of days after we were taken,” he said calmly.

“Why?”

He rolled his eyes. “Who wouldn’t be? Sometimes you’re pretty ignorant, Shy.”

She frowned coldly, the ice in her chest twisting. “Get to the point.”

“Tense. You were tense like you were going to tear someone’s throat out. And then the- then the Emperor. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke to you. I’ll never forget it.”

“Surely you weren’t scared a-”

“I’m not finished. You were always cold, but you really needed a medal this time. You’d barely speak to me, even look at me. Fergus told us the Emperor had gotten into you. That you were gonna kill us. I believed him. Ethan was the only one who didn’t, called us all paranoid. Damn hypocrite.”

She paused. _He believed I would, even then?_ “I was trying to keep you safe.”

“Funny way of doing it.”

Her gaze traced the ground, smooth black floor shining like stained glass. How unfitting to ring the bells of church windows. Only, this place had no mottled colours touched by morning sunlight. Simply pain and the faint marks of boots. “There were many things you didn’t see. Didn’t know. Things you still don’t.”

“What, so you’re gonna keep them from me forever? Keep me innocent? I’ve seen people die. How much worse can that be?”

The scars over his dark lips and face were faint. But they were still an unwelcome reminder.

_They can be so much worse, Nick. So much worse._

“When Fergus died- Or, when I killed him. He talked about ‘we.’ That you would all hate me for what I’d done? I need to tell you-”

He twitched. Like a puppet on a string.

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Shy.” Shaira’s gaze jerked up to him, flashing with something unreadable. “I’ve been wondering something for a while.”

She waited.

Pain clenched her chest, but she waited.

“Cause-” His voice broke. “Cause you just act like you don’t care. It’s nothing to you. Like this is some game to you, targets and not people. Chess- and I know you suck at chess, but- but what were you- why did you not just-”

“Nick.”

He looked up at her in rage. “Do you regret it?”

_All of it, Nick. All of it._

“No.”

He stared at her like they all did, with disgust and hatred and horror and all the things she felt about herself.

“I regret the satisfaction, but I don’t regret killing him.” The words tasted like bitter poison. “We both know it was the kindest thing for him.”

Nick recoiled as if burned. She watched his jaw clench, his fists held tight.

He let his hands fall back open.

In grief.

In defeat.

“Yeah- but you’re the one living with it.”

“I have to live with all of them. Everywhere.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, toes curling. “I’ll die with them, too.”

Shaira could hear Nick’s breathing loud in her ears, harsh and irregular. She didn’t dare brush his mind.

A voice whispered against her cheek. _Just wait for him to turn on you._

She sighed deeply, drowning it out. “But a cold glance is hardly something to get scared about.”

He raised an eyebrow, burying his previous emotion in a layer of dirt. As if he'd dug a grave. “Brave words from someone scared of _mushrooms.”_

“We’re losing our current topic.”

“I didn’t know we _had_ a topic.”

Shaira’s mismatched eyes flashed. “Where am I being taken?”

Nick fell silent, his hazel eyes glittering with consideration. She caught a wisp of his thoughts. _I walked right into that one._

“I can’t tell you.”

“Of course. Orders are orders.”

“You can’t talk!” he snapped.

“Ah, _there_ it is.” She straightened, smirk cruel. Internally, the voices screamed at her to end him. _Deceit!_ They cried. _Deceit!_ “You were being too nice. I’d almost been convinced.”

Her tone dropped. “You were never good at faking.”

_Perhaps the grave was too shallow._

“I’m not an assassin,” he said icily, his eyes back to flint. “I’ve never had to _kill_ people to keep myself alive. Like _you.”_

“Oh, but you’ve _tried._ I’m alive, Lieutenant. You couldn’t fool me back then and you can’t fool me now.”

“I had you at the start,” he bit out.

“You never call me by my title. That’s Adam’s move.” She paused. “You wouldn’t happen to be testing how effective those drugs are, would you?”

Nick's lips thinned into a hard line.

“Thought so.”

She turned to the door, intending to go down to the hold and await her fate. Knowing that it would be far better than having to see what Nick had become. Because of her.

_This is why I cannot trust._

“Wait!” His voice sounded quietly behind her. “I meant it."

Shaira didn’t turn back around. “Which part?”

“It wasn’t really your fault.”

She stopped. “Whether it is my fault or not, it still happened. And people have died because of it. Whether it is _justified_ or not, I am a murderer. You need to remember that. I am not the Shaira you once knew anymore, and I am not an innocent thirteen-year-old girl anymore. I never was.”

“You haven’t died, Shy. You’ve still got human in you, Palpatine couldn’t take that away.”

Her lip curled into a tight-lipped snarl. “As if I could ever get rid of it, Lieutenant?”

Nick’s eyes widened. “That’s not what-”

“I know.” She hissed absently low in her throat, a foreign, strange sound. She did turn then. “What do you want from me, Nick? I have nothing to give you but regret.”

He flinched.

_How many years has it been? And when did I start hoping?_

“I wanted to know if you’d changed.”

Shaira continued on to the door, her cold eyes closed so she couldn’t see the floor spinning under her steady feet. “Everyone changes, good or bad or normal- your viewpoint might vary. But as you know, they have to,” she said evenly. “Or they become the rock. Strong, but it splits in the earthquake.”

 _“Illustrations,”_ he muttered. “That’s not how I think of rocks. They’re just... rocks. You know? Those things on the ground.”

“We're different, for better or for worse.”

Nick fiddled with the sleeve of his uniform, rolling it between his fingers. “Well we sure as hell aren’t the same, Shaira.”

She bowed her head, expressionless. “And for that, I am grateful.”

“So, what did you need to tell me?”

Her boots made no sound as she took her next step. And another. And another. A rhythm in time with her breathing.

 _What did you need to tell me?_ A voice echoed.

_That I’m sorry, that I shouldn’t have hurt you, that I should have said something, that I should have talked to you and chosen a different path._

_That I’m sorry._

_That I’m sorry for_ everything.

“Nothing important. Just that you should avoid me where you can, or people will make your life more difficult.”

“So you _do_ care.”

Her lips thinned, a needle of pain striking her ribs. “I’m keeping you alive.”

“Right.” His hazel eyes hardened. “Like you always have.”

“I don’t care if you hate me,” Shaira cut in, the ghost of a familiar memory crossing her pale face. “But I don’t hate you. No matter what I say beneath yellow eyes, I don’t hate you.”

“You sure as hell make it hard to tell.”

“Once an assassin, always an assassin, remember?”

He winced. “Sometimes I wish it had been me, you know. I don’t… hate you either. I have no idea what the hell I would have done. Whatever happens down there,” -and he jerked his chin to the door- “just know that I really tried.”

Shaira frowned.

“You know, people… don’t tell you how to react to this. What you’re supposed to do.”

“React to what?”

“All of this.” Nick threw his hands wide. “Everything. Even the droids. Heck, the bathroom. That you can lift objects with your mind- use the Force, blow up spaceships. It’s insane. You’re willing to throw it all away? You don’t _care?”_

“I do care.” Shaira felt something akin to sadness settle in her chest. “I care about you and all the others. Max- the rest. But why do you think we’re here, Nick?”

He looked away. Couldn’t find the words to reply.

“We’re here because-” And she could almost see an interrogation cell from under her eyelids as the words fell from her mouth. “-just like the rock, everyone breaks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh did you think Shaira was the _villain?_  
>  Welp, sorry to disappoint. Not everyone can be easy to hate. Hell, even Vader receives some kind of sympathy.  
> Criticism is definitely welcome, and I hope this was fun to read.  
> :D


	4. To Be in the Wrong Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ship lands as usual. What is beyond its doors is not, however, usual.  
> Nor will it be safe.

One of the guards opened her binders with a click as the ship hummed roughly around them. Shaira absently noted two new presences outside the ship, moving slowly on either side.

_Guiding the ship, most likely._

Nick frowned shallowly in her direction.

She stared down at her free wrists.

 _Never for long,_ the little voice whispered.

Two electro-staffs buzzed in the background. A warning.

Shaira hadn’t pushed them to see how well they fought. It wasn’t worth the risk, and her earlier assessment didn’t yield much information other than that they were at least trained to practise self-control. After all, she needed to build the illusion of trust. Showing any signs of aggression would only put her on the wrong end of the blade.

She sighed. These situations were… frustrating.

And Nick’s constant refusal to see past his own emotions. They were so raw and uncontrolled that whenever they rolled over her she felt like she was going to drown. Years of being in the military had made her too used to numbed emotions. People would act on their emotions instead of expressing them; an ensign found it easier to punch another ensign than scream at them. _Especially_ those who had their positions because of politics.

Though those were more likely to be malicious through manipulation.

She had put more than a few of those down in her career. After all, even an Admiral would hesitate before confronting the Grand Assassin.

As would the entirety of the New Republic’s command.

Her reputation was not one to be taken lightly, and she understood that _explicitly._

In her court trial, walking under their stares, she had felt their rage, their hostility. Intense waves rolling over her, bile rising in her throat at their hatred. The only light in the room was Luke Skywalker, standing silently, a bright glow of hope in the storm.

Quiet as it might have been, the trial had been a mere taste of what the galaxy thought of people under the Emperor’s hand.

It did not matter to the New Republic what had caused such a person to bow low to a tyrant, it only mattered that they were punished for their crimes. Shaira had certainly not predicted life imprisonment. She had actively prepared herself for brutal execution, but considering she had played a part in removing the Emperor from the shadows of the Empire, it was only expected the mild-tempered Jedi would cause those in power to see the error in their decision.

Even if they would use it to their own gain.

 _“There’s light in her,”_ Skywalker had said. _"A_ _nd she’s telling the truth when she says she is willing to pay in full for what she’s done. Consider what she has done for the galaxy, despite her past actions.”_

The sincerity of that appeal, to her, the Grand Assassin, the murderer of thousands upon thousands- And that he was willing to _forgive_ her, to forget what she’d done…

She had reached through the Force and told him that his kindness wasn’t deserved.

And he’d replied: _"E_ _veryone deserves a second chance.”_

Of course, when he’d said it, she realized it was true to his character. His father had far more blood on his hands and yet Luke had seen good in him.

Luke Skywalker wasn’t even her friend. She didn’t know him. And yet he cared enough about a stranger to help.

Shaira Derison did not have such a pure soul.

When she had been forced to kill people to ensure her friends stayed alive, she hadn’t known that her friends had been watching, hidden. They had seen then and there that not only was she cold, but she was _cruel._ And to be honest, she hadn’t cared. She was only focused on keeping others alive.

Shaira Derison didn’t worry about what her friends thought of her, as long as they were alive.

She had been such a fool to think death was the worst thing that would befall them.

 _You’re just like Vader,_ she could hear the people around her spit. _A disgusting animal, worthy only to be slaughtered._

Looking back at her decisions, her _mistakes,_ the only person she hated more than Vader and the Emperor was herself.

And she choked on that hatred every time she saw Nick look at her the same way she looked at herself.

Even when those thoughts were shut out of her head, the fear clouding her mind beyond coherent thought, the mirror could never lie about the scars tearing white and pink and purple marks across her skin, until it was impossible to tell in some places what the shade of her skin was supposed to be.

Not even her face had escaped the brutal savagery.

Now that was all people saw when they looked at her. Hunter. Torturer. Assassin.

They would never see the little pieces of her swimming in a sea of broken thoughts. Underneath the water, there was that tiny flicker of warmth that people had tried so hard to stamp out. The small ember had no direction, true, and it was weak. Barely there. But it had stayed loyal, and when she was lucky, it allowed her to warm her hands over the gentle flames.

_“There’s light in her.”_

Maybe there was. But the idea was so ridiculous she simply tried to hide it.

Yet when she saw a creature in pain or a person stranded amidst their own destructive thoughts, a part of her would not rest until they were healed.

A part of her screamed when her hands were dripping with blood.

She shifted her weight toward the wall, keeping the guards in the corner of her eye.

_Once an assassin, always an assassin._

The calmness on her face did not betray the snowstorm behind her eyes. Her lip twitched at the memory of many faces intent on seeking out the cracks in her mask, their thoughts reeking of corruption.

Many of them had died before they’d had the chance to see anything.

The ship’s hum around her shifted to a lower pitch. They’d slowed.

_Landing._

She blinked away any trace of the terror twisting unwanted in her chest.

And almost did a double-take as thousands of unfamiliar presences, _strange_ presences, flared up in her mind.

White flashed in her vision, and she leaned heavily into the wall to keep her balance.

 _What on_ Earth _was that?_

She was immediately alert, her gaze snapping to the end of the hold. The ship’s purr changed again, going lower still, and there was the softest thud as it set down.

Shaira narrowed her mismatched eyes as if they would scorch holes through the durasteel plating.

She considered. They’d had an escort of ships, she had a guard detail, Nick was a Lieutenant… but she’d heard no communication between him and the pilots yet…

The shrill beeping of a comm scraped in her ears.

_Nevermind._

“Lieutenant Murphy on the line. Yes?” Nick asked.

_“Ship’s set down and all lights are green. The Ascendancy’s welcoming party is coming out to greet us. Best not to keep them waiting.”_

Nick glanced briefly at Shaira.

_...Ascendancy?_

“Thanks, Kalley. You can lower the ramp now.”

 _“Yessir,”_ Kalley replied, somewhat sarcastically.

Nick frowned but said nothing.

Shaira searched her memories in vain for the strange reaction that word had evoked in her. It sounded familiar. So _familiar._

Chanting the word in her head did nothing.

The ramp hissed, and slowly, painfully, it started lowering.

The moment her eyes adjusted to the soft blue-white light, she clenched her jaw swiftly to stop it from dropping open. Out of habits from her artistic side, colour was the first thing that struck her.

And then just _couldn’t-_ _wouldn’t-_

The word blared, _teared_ in her head like a siren.

_CHISS?_

Her thoughts went deadly silent. And then they _screamed, shouted, shrieked,_ exploding until she found herself blinking to shut them out.

_Chiss. Chiss. Chiss. Chiss._

A memory struck her like a spear through the shoulder. A buried memory. Almost forgotten. Blurry, oh so blurry, but _there._

_Chiss Ascendancy, in the books. Thrawn. But Thrawn was- Empire. Grand Admiral. No. But- false. Didn’t happen. Thrawn did not join Empire. Why? Why not? Why Chiss? Why this?_

With complete calmness, she strode to Nick’s side at his sharp gesture, and the guards formed around and in front of them.

The colours around her grew dull and messy against those approaching.

Shaira wondered what would happen if she said: _“You know what? Screw it.”_ And then proceeded to walk away from the ridiculous situation.

As if reading her thoughts, though she told herself he most certainly could not, Nick glanced warningly in her direction. Whatever it was in his gaze seemed to snap her out of her childish thoughts and she abruptly realized: _This is a test._

 _“Can we trust you?”_ the New Republic had asked. Leia. Mon Mothma. Others.

 _“No,”_ she’d said. _“But trust my actions.”_

She glanced between Nick and the guards.

_Trust my actions._

Her eyes tracked down to the Ascendancy’s delegation.

_Trust my actions._

Purpose resonated off them strongly.

**No.**

She couldn’t disregard this. It was trust of the highest kind, she realized. She wasn’t just holding her word on a string but this- this entire _alliance._

This was an alliance.

And she… she had become the heart of it.

Trillions of people could be dangling on the thread of her choices. And as history had shown, she was not someone who made good choices.

Trust, indeed.

_How long can I last?_

The ramp reached the deck with a hiss. It rattled in her ears.

Closer, closer, the Chiss strode.

Closer, closer, her fate slithered.

Shaira sighed and whispered softly so that only Nick could hear: “Hold your head up high in the face of Death, for he feeds off terror.”

Nick’s fists clenched. _"T_ _ú_ estás asustada.” You _are scared._

“Siempre.” _Always._

He did not reply.

“I guess this might be goodbye,” she said, raising an unconcerned eyebrow.

“That’s a lot to infer from _one_ look.”

“I’m not stupid, Lieutenant.”

“Wish you were?”

“Sometimes.”

He made a rough noise in the back of his throat as they descended down the ramp, the bright red guards around them in careful formation. “I’d give a lot of things to have a mind like yours. Minus the trauma, of course.”

“You'll have to get in line. I could do with a couple less voices.”

“You’re schizophrenic,” he said, shaking his head.

“I think you need a few more years in med school, my bro.”

He frowned deeply, saying nothing in return. The dark fog coming off him in waves lessened.

“Why did you volunteer for this mission?”

Shaira was certain that if a storm could physically manifest itself as a person, that person would be Nick.

_Good as a painting. Real life? Not so much._

“Why do _you_ care?”

 _I swear Nick, one of these days-_ “You’ll know who’s supposed to be translating.”

“That’ll be Dekk.”

She gave him the look, her lips thinned into a line.

“The guy with the big hands.”

“Sy Bisti?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Nick paused. “You speak it, don’t you?”

Shaira smirked.

“How many is that now?”

“I don’t count. Which house is this? Mitth?”

“Hell if I know.”

_“Nick.”_

He glanced away, sighing heavily. “Fine. Yes, it’s House Mitth.”

“Yo voy a morir aquí," she muttered.

“My Spanish is rusty. Slow down.”

Her gaze snapped forward to the approaching Chiss. “Look sharp,” she whispered. “And guard your eyes. Free emotion is looked down on.”

He gave her the how-would-you-know look, but decided it would be best to keep his mouth shut this close. And just like that, the frail softness Shaira allowed to show through was burned off and Nick was met with her mask. Her eyes dulled and those walls hardened into spears, dancing with the darkness in her gaze.

Shaira left him wondering if that softness was ever really there at all.

It only took a few more steps and they stopped a polite distance away. The guards swung around in sync and formed two lines facing in, leaving Nick and Shaira standing side by side between them. The two strode to the front and the two lines morphed into a red semicircle behind them.

Shaira analyzed the Chiss carefully, unwilling to appear hostile.

The head of the delegation introduced himself as Mitth’err’marna, his Sy Bisti a little off but still understandable. He was assistant to Syndic Mitth’ras’safis of House Mitth.

Shaira perked her ears.

Mitth’err’marna did not have particularly intelligent eyes, nor was his pale blue face showing anything other than barely masked disgust, so Shaira concluded that his position as an assistant wasn’t the most remarkable one, nor was his stance anything other than formal. His robe, or she supposed it could be called a robe, was only half burgundy. The overgarment was dark blood-red, folding over his shoulders and down his hips. His standard garment was black. The material was shinier than normal fabric, almost metallic, and it looked as if someone had turned water into a wearable material.

 _Mitth’err’marna. Would that make his core name Therrm? He really is a bit of a measurement, isn’t he? Maybe he’s_ erring _on the side of caution._

Nick introduced himself as Lieutenant Nick Murphy and who he represented, Dekk translating. He then proceeded to continue with a less than diplomatic presentation, mercifully brief, which was no more enlightening to her than she suspected it was for the Ascendancy delegation.

 _Smooth social skills. Huh. Where did_ they _go?_

He then gestured to her and said: “I also introduce Shaira Derison.”

Dekk relayed that back to Mitth’err’marna.

She bowed shallowly. _“Honoured to meet you, Mitth’err’marna,”_ she said in Sy Bisti.

She was cast an unusual, wary look from scarlet eyes. To her surprise, Mitth’err’marna bowed back.

_“Likewise, Shaira’deri’son.”_

Suspicion twisted a knife into the back of her mind. As a prisoner, she should not have been addressed. She was no politician, but she’d had her fair share of political dance battles, and they were snake pits. If Mitth’err’marna had returned the bow, that must mean she was worth enough to acknowledge, which in turn meant…

_I’m not liking where this is going._

The Force lurked a little way off, sending waves of uneasiness her way.

 _Danger, danger, danger,_ it chanted, a powerful hum buzzing behind her eyes.

Her mind was oddly disconnected as they were led across the hangar, noting absently that she couldn’t see any droids. The two fighters that she assumed had been their escort had eased into ports in the upper part of the hangar, where she could only just see other fighters of the same design, bearing a strange similarity to TIEs.

_Clawcraft, I’d assume._

Shaira sighed inwardly. 

Syndic? Political? But still associated with the military? House Mitth was military just like House Nuruodo, if she even had the right information, clearly had political representatives that had some sort of power, but their names were _confusing._ Mitth’ras’safis was associated with House Mitth, not House Nuruodo, but Mitth’raw’nuruodo was with both. So Mitth was the first part of a name, Nuruodo was a third, but then there were other Houses…

So then how was Mitth’raw’nuruodo with two houses? Maybe the first part of their name had to be smaller than the third part of their name as a weird language rule, so Mitth’raw’nuruodo was adopted into House Mitth but was still contracted in some way to Nuruodo because House Nuruodo was the Second Ruling Family which made it more powerful than the Eighth Ruling Family- _stars,_ that was a bit much.

And then the most confronting thought had to be considered. _Is this information reliable? Or is it outdated?_

None of the Chiss around them attempted to make even idle conversation, so Shaira simply enjoyed the muted sounds around her. She hadn’t seen purposeful bustling in more than eight months, and she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the breath of life surrounding her.

If it was possible to fight off the emotional numbness fogging her thoughts, she would have been curious about all the foreign technology. Except what the Chiss soldiers were holding like thin swords, they looked vaguely familiar…

She kicked back the urge to freeze. 

_Pikes._

And not just the standard electric pikes either, these were _Force_ pikes. Exactly like the ones the Emperor’s personal guard had used.

Freedom never came free, did it?

The New Republic must have been very serious about this alliance if they were exchanging technology that deadly.

Shaira breathed out slowly. As long as she behaved- ah.

So that’s why Mitth’err’marna had greeted her. He felt _safe._ Clearly they’d already tested how well those pikes worked, though how, she didn’t want to know.

They walked in a somewhat uptight manner to a three-choice intersection, the corridors frighteningly clear of personnel. It was likely they were in the middle of a shift, maybe so the New Republic’s small group wouldn’t get an idea of how many manned a Chiss warship and who did what.

Trust here was an illusion. There might be an alliance, enough to allow guards from one to mingle with the other, but that didn’t mean they trusted each other. It was a classic example, one Shaira had seen many times. Mitth’err’marna was just high enough up the ladder for the New Republic not to be offended by him receiving them. 

Syndic Mitth’ras’safis wouldn’t stoop down to any randoms.

_Knowledge is power._

The less either knew, the less likely they were able to be harmed. You couldn’t assassinate someone’s leader if you didn’t know who they were. A shadow was hard to grasp and a blur was hard to see.

 _They’re polite, but not excessively so. They all follow a form, in the way they school their emotions and the way they group. It is interesting how they all wear burgundy. This must be some sort of military operation under House Mitth. I_ was _in the military, and Nick and those under his command are… perhaps that is why there is only one House involved in this. Ah. It’ll be because I’m technically a prisoner of war, so that means politics isn’t quite as appropriate._

It was refreshing to have something new to figure out. She was too used to seeing patterns repeated, over and over again. Power-hungry fools and greedy politicians that had learnt how to exploit the system. After all, there were only so many motivations someone could have. 

She couldn’t reach out too far into their minds while Nick was walking right next to her, but from what she could see, their patterns, while similar to humans, were… controlled, in a strange way. Similar in goal, but far different in personality. It was like they all had one pattern that they followed and beat their thoughts onto that path. Almost like-

_Loyalty._

She hadn’t seen that in so long, a loyalty that strong. In the Empire, everyone was loyal to their own pride and wants. But here, they believed in their government, they _trusted_ in those who led them, and they followed them to the point that their minds reflected that.

Shaira’s eyes narrowed slightly, a smooth voice whispering in her ear. _A shame. They’ll be much harder to manipulate._

She took another glimpse at the foreign flowing threads, shifting in and out like solar flares. They were all in shades of calm blue, much like their skin, but they were so _cold._ It prickled along the edges of her mind, and she could feel the icy burning in her lungs and under her skin. 

Human minds were warm, full of bubbling emotion and feeling, but the Chiss’s were reserved, kept on a tight leash. She almost curled her numb fingers in to warm them.

But she still could not figure out her purpose. A prisoner exchange was far too strange to consider, a meeting even stranger. She had something very important to do with this alliance, but _what was it?_

Her hand drifted up to the round device in her neck, about the size of her thumbnail. It glowed a soft blue, but really it should have been red. Red for pain and danger. It had only been used a few times when someone’s temper had snapped, and she didn’t enjoy the shock lancing into her temples and bursting behind her eyes. Shaira had wondered if someone had known what Vader and the Grand Inquisitor had subjected her to, all those years ago, and had a cruel sense of humour. It was always the terror that tore sounds from her throat, not the pain.

Voices echoed in the distance. Shaira pushed back on the many thoughts crowding out the world, trying hard to focus on what was happening around her.

 _“House Mitth will continue from here. A briefing has been prepared which will inform you and your escort of what to expect. On behalf of the Ascendancy, we are honoured you have been able to make this journey,”_ Mitth’err’marna announced, his lips tight.

_In other words, I’d assume that means ‘get lost.’_

Dekk shifted to Nick, translated it to Basic, and then waited for him to reply.

Nick bowed in what she thought must have been acknowledgement. “I too am honoured to have been able to support the alliance between our governments. I hope we can further continue with these good connections.”

Shaira waited for Mitth’err’marna’s response as Dekk continued with the translation. The disgust was not overly obvious, but regardless of the assistant’s facial control, the emotion radiated off him in waves until her chest squeezed with the tension of breathing.

She reinforced the walls behind her mismatched eyes, keenly aware that there were other gazes on her. If she reacted to anything in any way, it would not go unnoticed. Recklessness had its place, but it was not here.

Assistant Mitth’err’marna simply bowed, which in its size was basically a nod, and waited.

Nick produced a small hand-held device that looked strikingly similar to a walkie-talkie or a handheld transceiver, just far thinner and made of duraplast. She felt the skin around the device in her neck prickle in warning, as if it knew exactly what that remote was.

She tugged back the dark creature whispering _just rip it out of their hands, free yourself_ and called silently for peace.

Darkness would not help her where she was going.

* * *

##  **During Project 48-Crimson, Many Years Ago**

_Shaira walked a corridor as if it had no end, no beginning._

_The ground beneath her feet was black, not like ash or charred flesh, but like smooth, glassy paint. It glowed softly like the light from a distant star._

_The walls were grey, grey, grey. And through them, she could hear voices. Distant voices._

_A voice of fear: “The modifications are in process, my lord, but there is no guarantee she will survive with such drastic changes to her being.”_

_A voice of power: “If she is strong she will survive. If not, the Empire has no use for weaklings.”_

_And then a voice of certainty, a voice that did not echo like the others but flickered like the ghostly touch of fingers along skin:_ I’m going to die.

_It was like the Force was pushing for her to let go, to let go of this life and this pain and accept that it would be better if she did not hold on. That it would be better for everyone if she just stopped dragging her feet through the snow and submitted to the cold._

Let yourself fade.

_But in all her grief and terror, she did not listen. She did not let rest consume her. She did not let the void tear her from her being._

_This was not her place and not her time to die, she thought._

_She was wrong._

_The walls around her dissolved, melting into the blackness as if they were made of dust. Now all she could see were mirrors, showing what she was, what she was…_

_But that was not what she was any longer._

_A youthful face frowned up at her, eyebrows considering, mismatched eyes burning, hands folded behind their back. There was no fear, only grief. It looked like her, so much like her. But it couldn’t be her._

Come back, _they said._ Don’t leave me here alone.

_“I don’t need you anymore,” she said coldly._

_Those mismatched eyes pooled down,_

_down,_

_down,_

_Until they became pits, two open mouths, ready to swallow her whole._

Ah, but that’s only what you tell yourself.

_And those eyes shifted into two monsters, one light and one dark, both crawling towards her like dragons without wings, and they chased her as she ran._

_She ran._

_She ran._

_She ran._

_And the person that was her but could never be her stared at Shaira from the mirrors, their eyes gone, and yet they saw. They saw her fear, and they shook their head, saying to themself:_

I warned you what not to become.

_And still Shaira ran, away from her hunters, away from her mirrors, away from her voices, in a place that had no end and no beginning and no sky from which a glow could come._

_She cried, because what was in the mirror was not her, because what it spoke was not her, because after everything she had tried to tell herself, after all those reassurances that she had not changed and that she could_ never _change,_

_she had._

_Because what was in the mirror was not her, but_ it should have been.

_She wanted to scream, but the sound could not leave her lips. She wanted to stop and kill those creatures, go back and shatter those mirrors. But her feet would not cease and so she continued, without the will to turn around._

_The voice of regret plagued her like a bad conversation, turning over and over in her head, what should have been said unable to be. The grave that she should have left flowers at had disappeared long ago and now she dug her own, splinters wedged deep in her hands from the eagerness to bury what was stuck in her head._

_What a fool she had been. What a coward._

_She knew what she should have done. Had been told it many times. Had hoped for it, sometimes._

_Yet here she was, with nothing to remind her of what existed before everything was lost but too much that reminded her of all the terrible things she had gained._

_Her friends, now changed beyond repair._

_Her mind, now broken beyond despair._

_And now her body, altered so all her sins be laid bare._

_Inside and out, a monster is seen._

_What once was a smile has turned into a scream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to release a chapter on the 31st, but then I realized nah, why?  
> So, congrats! New chapter!  
> Thank you to those who've been leaving kudos and comments, it means a lot!  
> I still can't believe how long this damn fic is turning out to be.
> 
> CRACK SUMMARY:
> 
> Nick: So these Chiss-  
> Shaira: What the hell man, you could've told me there'd be this many good-looking people waiting for me.
> 
> Nick & Shaira: *appears*  
> Mitth'err'marna: WHAT ARE THOZZEEEE


	5. To Meet the Devil's Speaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaira is brought to Syndic Mitth'ras'safis.

The Senior Captain waved her hand casually, motioning to her officers. “Call off the snipers, the asset is under control.”

Red eyes returned to their stations, uneasy. “Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Shaira never said goodbye to Nick. Couldn’t, really. Not with everyone watching her.

Or perhaps she was eager to forget his presence. 

So she let silence speak her words and followed Mitth’err’marna, along the corridor, past a line of staring cadets that didn’t look as young as they likely were, past rows upon rows of doors, and finally up to a door that looked a little more important. There was writing on it she could not read.

Cheunh, she assumed.

She caught sight of the surveillance just as quickly as she had noticed the thinly veiled tension of everyone around her.

She was even more aware of the Force pikes, and how quickly this could all turn to hell.

Mitth’err’marna shuffled somewhat tensely over to what looked like a built-in comm on the door controls and pressed it in with short blue fingers, proceeding to rapidly talk in his native language. His expression wasn’t particularly neutral, either.

Somebody's over-exalted cousin, probably.

Despite paying strict attention to the words, she couldn’t pick them out individually. Emotionally, she thought she detected a hint of fear and mistrust beneath.

Against her better judgement, she relaxed her ears, wondering what she could hear through the walls. After all, it might not be particularly polite, but assassins weren’t exactly courteous by nature. Not unless they were trying to kill someone.

Shaira had had a more… how should she say it… _directional_ childhood than most would expect, but while it had certainly covered manners it hadn’t taught her about the people that those manners were supposed to be applied to. So she applied them to everyone and hoped for the best. A lot of the time, it paid off.

More often, it frustrated people.

Your enemies don’t expect you to be respectful and peaceful. It unnerves them when the person they are trying to get a reaction out of is dangerous but doesn’t use their power. 

Anger had its place, but using it here and now would not be beneficial. Not _yet._

 _You claim you want to_ change, a voice spat. _And yet you still prepare to manipulate others? As if your face is nothing but the Grand Assassin's mask?_

Shaira noted, beyond the whispering in her ears, that there were no voices behind that door. Someone was waiting, then.

She reached out gingerly, numbly feeling for a presence. There was only one.

_Interesting. That must be Syndic Mitth’ras’safis. The one in the middle of all this hell._

Her gaze drifted to Mitth’err’marna’s back, the remote that controlled the shock device in her neck stuck to his thin belt, next to his sidearm. It would be so _easy_ to kill him, crush the remote in her palm, shoot the escort and unleash disaster on the cruiser.

 _Freedom,_ the dark thoughts in her mind murmured.

 _The Dark Side has no freedom,_ she whispered back.

It was tempting, so _very_ tempting, but she’d promised herself the Grand Assassin had to die. Whether literally or only mentally, it didn’t matter. But this meeting would determine how that happened.

Even if it cost her life.

_That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?_

_Coward,_ a voice hissed. _You’re a coward. Do you think you deserve to live? Do you think you deserve mercy? You’re only faking the light inside you so you aren’t killed._

Another voice chimed in. _The New Republic should have killed you. Even_ you _wanted it._

The light on the controls that wasn’t quite red shifted to a not-quite-green, and the door slid open.

Mitth’err’marna was the first to step through, and a few of the soldiers behind her moved forward warningly. She followed him in.

The room rounded out in a vaguely oval shape slanted to one side, where another closed door rested. The beautiful walls were a deep, textured orange-brown, and on top of that there were burgundy tapestries and banners in a very pleasing arrangement. On closer inspection, the walls had a kind of flowing carve to them, and the brown shifted between lighter and darker like it was a kind of mixed resin gradient or amber stone. The glittering floor was the same, only lacking the carving. The ceiling was a pale, icy blue, like a glacier caught in dawn light, and it shimmered like a clear pool. In the middle of the room, where Syndic Mitth’ras’safis was sitting, there was a long, jaggedly-shaped table moulded to the ground. It was the same shade as everything else, and across the centre, a lengthy strip of embroidered burgundy cloth was trying very hard to be noticed.

Unfortunately she didn’t have a lot of time to admire the room, so she embedded it in her memory for later reference.

Mitth’err’marna said something else hesitantly, and the Syndic replied curtly. That remote made itself at home on the table under Mitth’ras’safis’s hands.

His assistant spun back around, shot her a venomous look, and the door slid shut behind him. No guards had followed them through.

_This is new._

Mitth’ras’safis leaned back in his chair, his blue hands contrasting harshly against the burgundy cloth, never leaving the remote, and gave her a long, assessing look with unreadable red eyes.

In lightly accented Basic, he said: “Come, please sit. We have much to discuss, Shaira’deri’son.”

The voices died, allowing her own thoughts to ring loud and clear.

_This man is either crazy..._

_Or dangerously intelligent._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So something I might need to clarify to avoid confusion:**
> 
> Shaira views her and the Grand Assassin as two separate people. She also refers to it this way in speech. Often, she'll have thoughts that seem aggressive or downright evil, and those are what are called 'the Grand Assassin's thoughts.' Because she's had to do terrible things for so long in order to keep her loved ones alive, she's coped with it by splitting her actions into two people: those of Shaira Derision and the Grand Assassin. The mask the Grand Assassin wore was just another divider, even though she never needed to wear one if she didn't want to. While she definitely regrets her actions, and will do so for the rest of her life, bad or malicious thoughts will still come into her mind because she's had to think like that for so long.  
> When she says the Grand Assassin has to die, she doesn't always mean literally (though sometimes she definitely does), because technically that's also her. Sometimes, she only means that the 'person' who did those terrible things needs to be dissolved.
> 
> TL,DR: She's not a 'bad' person, she's just had to do bad things for so long it's morphed into a 'second personality.' The second personality is pretty much the Grand Assassin.
> 
> Now, to continue with the Notes!  
> The above stuff was a concept I really wanted to play with. If you act like a completely different person for an extended period of time, does that person then have a place in you? Does it become its own voice, its own identity? It isn't DID, but it has some of the elements of it. Can you choose to switch between those voices? Do you view them as different people or splintered parts of a person?  
> It was something that ended up being really interesting with Shaira and wasn't something I'd ever read before.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for reading! Even those who don't leave comments or kudos. I'm honoured you've taken the time to read this story. It reminds me that people do like the stuff I write, and that I have a reason to continue.  
> Thank you all so much, and welcome to 2021!  
> 🤗🤗


	6. An Assassin and A Syndic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaira meets Syndic Mitth'ras'safis, the bearer of her unexpected fate.
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Violence, Abuse/Torture (the electric kind)
> 
> Hydrophius, thank you so much for being the beta for this chapter! :3

##  **Eight Months Ago**

Rel, one of the guards, shoved her forward.

She didn’t stumble, didn’t flinch, only took the push in a longer stride and kept walking. Face perfectly neutral, arms held still in skin-chafing shock cuffs. Rubbing against the metal device cut into her wrist. Covered head to toe in plain black.

Her blank masked face stared straight ahead.

“Oh, kriffing react for once,” he spat.

She stopped as her escort halted as well.

Her head didn’t turn.

Maybe if she had been younger, she would have replied, but… this wasn’t Black Sun, and she wasn’t going to escape.

_“Look at me.”_

She didn’t move.

“Look at me, you kriffing murderer.”

Another guard spoke up. “Rel, maybe you shouldn’t-”

“Shut up, Lyro.” He stalked right up into Shaira’s face, his eyes swirling with rage and brimming with old, painful memories. “The New Republic might want to give you a _fair_ trial, but as far as you should be concerned, they’ll make sure you’re executed. And I hope they take their _sweet_ time.”

She said nothing.

“Rel-”

“I said shut the _kriff_ up, Lyro! I’m not done.”

His finger jammed in the remote’s button.

A mangled sound of pain tore from under her helmet.

Shaira’s knees buckled, falling, her body freezing. Her hands jerked up to her neck. Balled into half-fists. The shock cuffs shrieked and flared bright blue. Her fingers spasmed, her shoulders hunched so tight they pressed in on her neck.

Dark blood seeped out of her metal-capped gloves.

“Rel, _stop!”_

Lyro grabbed his arm in an iron grip, his eyes wide. Rel threw him off.

“What for?”

Rel flicked the remote to orange, and Shaira’s vision blurred. She couldn’t hear what kind of scream he ripped from her. Only felt her throat burn, her head thrown back. Claws tearing open her fingertips, teeth bared, tears unseen behind her black mask.

He didn’t stop.

The ground swayed beneath her knees. Coarse, static grey.

Was she in a prisoner transport or… somewhere else?

_Nick screamed as the door closed. His fists pounding on metal. Out of time to her stuttering heartbeat._

**_“No!”_ **

_The iron grip crunching her wrist threw her into a metal chair._

_She stared ahead. She stared. Couldn’t move her eyes. Couldn’t move her feet._

_And suddenly couldn’t move her hands either, as metal binders locked her to the chair. Cold against her wrists, sharp, textured. Needles sinking into her skin._

_She frowned as blood bubbled up and slithered down her fingers. Bright, bright red._

_Her eyes met the Agent’s._

_The Agent paused._

_That was the last thing she remembered clearly. That, and Nick’s fists against the door, over and over and over, a thumping beat to her twisted screaming._

Her sight flickered back, leaping to her eyes.

“Stop.” Soft male voice, young, warm and familiar.

“Give me back the remote, Jedi. This isn’t your business.”

“It is,” he said calmly. “I can’t let you do something you’ll later regret.”

“What’s there to regret? _Alderaan?”_

From the ground, she faintly saw Rel’s stance shift to face him.

“This prisoner is not responsible for Alderaan,” the Jedi said. “And it is not violence that will bring you justice, nor will it heal your anger.”

Rel looked away, and then down at Shaira, shaking. His lip curled.

“Maybe not. But Alderaan isn’t coming back. Who am I supposed to blame? Tarkin’s ashes? Or the Emperor’s?”

“Tarkin and the Emperor have received their justice. This prisoner will have theirs. But this is not the right way to do it.” She felt his gaze drift over to her. “You’re relieved, I will escort her from here.”

Rel hesitated, Lyro tensely waiting, the others standing as still as tree trunks.

 _“Fine,”_ he hissed, hand striking the air between them. “But I owe it to Alderaan to have this creature gone.”

They melted away, Rel’s burning glare still a ghostly touch along her back. She could barely hear their steps above her own breathing, could barely hear at all. Her ears rang.

She pulled herself to her feet, swaying. Hoarse voice. “Thank you, Master Skywalker.”

Shaira bowed her head.

Luke’s green eyes lingered on the marching guards. “You haven’t been saved.”

Her head twisted to watch her tormenter leave. Feeling the unyielding device in her neck press hard metal against her skin.

“I know.”

* * *

_How easy it is to think the person you read of in a file is nothing more than a mindless droid. A puppet. An emotionless vessel for violence._

_How much simpler it is to view those you obliterate as mere numbers on a graph. Foolish beings. Simple animals._

_Do you think I have not done it myself?_

_Do you think I have not tried to numb myself to their names?_

_Many wish to take away the thoughts and emotions of those beneath them, to turn them into assets or pieces in a machine. Whether in war or because of a mere idea, they try._

_But when they meet those they believe to be nothing more than objects, when they get to know them, when they see these numbers are blood and flesh and bone..._

_They fail._

##  **Present Day**

Mitth’ras’safis laced his fingers together over the remote and inclined his head. He found it unlikely she would know that he meant he had just passed the conversation over to her, but was surprised when she spoke back.

“It’s an honour to meet the face behind this meeting, Syndic,” she said smoothly. Her voice was soft, flat, and perfectly moderated to give away nothing. He was expecting it to grate over his ears, but it was pleasant enough that he didn’t flinch. He had never heard anything like her accent before.

In the moment it took for her to stride over to the table and sit down, he analyzed her. 

Shaira’deri’son was tall, not ridiculously so, but enough for people to notice. She didn’t quite have the eyes of a manipulator, but those of a watcher. The gaze of someone supremely patient, peering from the outside in. He could not determine very much, however, because her eyes were dull and glazed over as if her captors had been a little too heavy-handed with their sedatives.

Her eyes themselves were very foreign. They glistened like every other human he had seen, but instead of two irises of the same colour, the left was a pale amber and the right was pitch black. Whether they had been purposely changed to offer a strange sort of distraction or were like that from her creation, he could not tell.

For an alien, she wasn’t particularly ugly, but neither was she strikingly beautiful. She seemed to be the kind of creature that wouldn’t care either way. According to what he knew, most of her career had been spent with a covered face.

Perhaps that was why her skin was so white.

 _I should have asked what Thrawn’s preferences were,_ he thought dryly.

When she sat down, she rested her elbows on the table so her pale hands were clasped in front of her face, just under her nose. It cleverly concealed her lips and part of her cheeks, making it harder to determine her mood.

And compared to a human, she was not open with her emotions.

 _A welcome change._ Mitth’ras’safis couldn’t endure much more of humans and their reckless feelings.

Unfortunately, it also meant she’d be harder to read. Something he had been counting on.

_Five days should be enough to learn how to read it._

This close, he was startled to notice the cold field around her being. The aura around her bled black, spattering out invisible lightning in icy waves and dark swirls. Static clogged the air like thick smoke. 

None of it showed on her face, but he had to take a moment to steady himself as icy tendrils of _something_ crawled under his skin. He resisted the urge to run a hand over them to ensure there wasn’t anything there.

She waited quietly.

Mitth’ras’safis had the strangest feeling that she and his brother would get along if she managed to cooperate.

“The Chiss Ascendancy, as you likely know, have reached an agreement with the New Republic,” Mitth’ras’safis began.

Shaira’deri’son nodded.

He leaned forward a little. “The Patriarchs have come to a decision that an alliance will be beneficial for both parties. This decision takes place in five standard rotations and will signal the partial combining of our militaries. Our political and public systems will stay separate, but good relations will be kept between the two.”

She raised an eyebrow. “However?”

_Interesting._

“However, since both parties are severely untrusting, a peace offering is necessary to preserve each party’s intentions. After negotiation, it was arranged that I was best suited to attend to your education for the coming ceremony between the Chiss Ascendancy and the New Republic.”

He expected the assassin to nod in understanding, perhaps offer some resistance to the idea, but continue nonetheless. What he got instead was a thin frown of confusion. Whether real or not, he couldn’t tell.

_What would it gain from faking ignorance? I’m unlikely to slip it anything classified._

She straightened in her chair, her hands shifting down to the burgundy embroidery flowing along the table. Her gaze pierced him squarely.

Mitth’ras’safis continued. “Of course, I do not expect you to be speaking Cheunh by the end of our teaching period, but I assume you will be able to, in the least, learn some basic greetings and phrases. It will be difficult for you, considering you are a half-human, but someone with your expertise should not be too challenged.”

Her frown deepened, and he was becoming a little unnerved that she had not spoken back yet. Had he said something of offence, or was his Basic incorrect? Or perhaps Shaira’deri’son was not of the right mind presently.

_Or perhaps it is trying to read my mind. An interesting attempt, considering it’s drugged._

He noticed her mismatched eyes drift down across the embroidery at her fingertips briefly, and he could just see the thoughts ticking behind her gaze.

His tone dropped. “Unfortunately, if you refuse to comply-”

Shaira’deri’son’s gaze jerked up with such speed Mitth’ras’safis almost flinched backwards in his seat.

The dull glisten behind her gaze was gone. A sharp, tearing stare had replaced it, swirling with dark intelligence and unspoken intentions. It reached into his bones with icy claws, colder than the winds of Csilla.

It was the first time he could recall feeling mortally threatened by someone and wholeheartedly _believing_ it. And when she spoke in a language he had never heard, her tone considerably harsher and infinitely less tired, he had enough sense to regret sitting alone in a room across from her.

Even with her abilities suppressed.

_“¿Esa es una amenaza?"_

It had barely reached the front of his mind when she hissed. Her lips peeled back to reveal long canines.

And then she started chuckling deeply. A hand smothered her mouth. “You’re all too easy to scare, Syndic. Do I _unnerve_ you?”

He was taken aback, his eyes wide. Had the assassin just- _joked_ with him? He blinked slowly, his heartbeat racing. “You _cannot_ do this around the Patriarchs. Your involvement is already under question, you do not need to put another mark against your name.”

_Not that one mark would compare to all the others. I wonder, does it care?_

She gestured casually, but he saw her eyes narrow slightly in return. “I wouldn’t dare be so bold with the Patriarchs. I was just curious as to your _true_ opinions of me, not the false respect plastered over your face."

Mitth’ras’safis made an effort to keep a flash of irrational anger off his face as the adrenaline wore away. Was the half-breed human implying that it was easy to see past his crafted façade? Or was it so untrusting of him that it was looking for an error in his words?

_It certainly doesn’t trust me._

Shaira’deri’son’s face was perfectly neutral, her mirth cast aside, as she said: “Don’t take my bluntness too personally. I have many reasons to be wary.”

And then her blatant confusion dawned on him. “You did not know what I was talking about, did you?”

She snorted softly. “No. Other than the alliance, of course.”

“So Lieutenant Murphy did not inform you of _why_ you were being transported, or why my people are involved.”

“No. Having my wrists unbound was quite a surprise. I had assumed I was going to be privately executed.” Something flickered darkly in those strange, glistening eyes.

Mitth’ras’safis was reduced to silence for a long moment, his ruby eyes considering. _Would the New Republic execute such a valuable prisoner?_

It was very unusual for them to keep her uninformed, prisoner or not. That likely meant… “You clearly do not know what is required of you.”

His estimation of the assassin rose a notch, noting that its composure was surely excellent for someone or _something_ that expected to be executed in empty space. Though, one notch wouldn’t add anything to his already low estimation.

Some things were simply expected of a cunning murderer.

“No. Though I gather it is a political bond, otherwise I would be conversing with a military figure. I must say, I am rather interested as to why you _are_ here, deigning to speak to me, seeing as I am a lowly prisoner.” Her lip curled up, but it was not a friendly expression or a soothing one. “After all, the New Republic has far better things to worry about.”

“Unfortunately, you are quite far from the truth.” He matched her gaze evenly, as any proper Chiss in his position should. “As of today, you are being transferred into the Chiss Ascendancy for the foreseeable future.”

Mitth’ras’safis let her absorb that, the air thickening by the second. Trying to gauge how she would react.

Her mismatched eyes narrowed, suspicion bleeding into the aura around her. “And for what use would your people find for me other than _cryo?”_

He took a steadying breath. Clearly, this was not going to go well.

“You have been put forth in marriage to a Chiss of the Patriarchs’ choosing.”

For a second, nothing happened.

That black aura exploded outwards until it was suffocating him, sucking the air out of his lungs. The tapestries vibrated as if wind was clutching at their fabric. Terror clouded his mind, and it didn’t feel like _his_ terror. It felt like a creature had torn a hole open and crawled in.

He couldn’t look away from the assassin’s eyes. They were flaming, burning, blazing, and he thought he could see poison-yellow bleeding through her irises. They were drilling through his head, scraping up the secrets woven into his thoughts.

He felt pinned, trapped, completely stripped bare of his calm face. She hadn’t moved a hair-breadth.

Rage. Pure, volcanic rage, molten lava, dripped from her stare.

It disappeared. He could breathe.

There was no longer anything marking betrayal of emotion on her face.

But her voice was still pouring out anger like he had never heard. “I pity whoever _dares.”_

Mitth’ras’safis simply stared blankly, his face schooled back to impassive. Trying to rearrange the thoughts that had scattered around his head. A few breaths, and they had been mercifully regained.

“Be careful of your tone,” he warned, his words almost a hiss. “The Patriarchs will not tolerate someone so reckless with their emotions.”

 _“Reckless?”_ The assassin chuckled and he saw her teeth flash, long and sharp. “Boy, you’ve never _seen_ reckless. You live a life of tradition, a strict set of rules placed before you that you follow like a planet follows its orbit. You’re a _politician._ You’ve never seen a pilot run their fighter straight into a Star Destroyer in the desperate hope their wingman might escape in the explosion. You’ve never seen people lying dead along the road you walk, faces beaten beyond recognition. You’ve never picked up a little shoe the size of your hand and wondered who once wore it. You’ve never had to _be_ reckless, because you’re just a little politician in your own little world and you have the option to sit to the side and see the sky burn. And when you watch people sign a piece of flimsi with their little stylus and finish with a little speech, you can go home and sleep easy thinking you’re doing all you can, when a couple of light-years away there are people screaming out for mercy under a hand that only presses further down.”

“I work for the good of my people.” That she would say something so hypocritical, that he be accused in such a way by an _assassin-_ “You have never chosen to peacefully stand for your people or work to improve their lives. You represent chaos. Destruction. Your only purpose was to kill for your Emperor blindly, and you did so. Be grateful you’ve been shown such astounding mercy.”

When she smiled, her stare satisfied, he knew he’d just given her something more she wanted to know.

He cursed internally.

“How interesting-” Shaira’deri’son said, that cruel smile curling into her words. “-that you think I am blind to the blood on my hands, Syndic. You might read a report and think you have me figured out, but you barely know me. The Chiss Ascendancy must be _terribly_ desperate to accept me and this alliance if I am thought so little of.”

And there it was. 

She had figured it out. An assassin knew his people were so desperate they’d stoop down to mingle, albeit briefly, with humans whom they despised.

_Now, how will it attempt to manipulate me?_

“I am not here to harm or threaten your people, Syndic. I am here to do what is required of me because I have made a promise. I’m not an assassin anymore, and even if it means never touching a blade again, that’s what I’ll do to make sure the Grand Assassin stays dead.”

“And I have your word on that?”

“You have my word. Though I cannot promise to control the things that follow me.”

“Such as Lieutenant Murphy?” he asked icily. “Do not think my assistant was unaware.”

“Chsh. He is his own person. I have no say in what he chooses to do with his life.”

“As if you have not affected it?”

Her empty gaze frosted over. “I don’t outrank you in this, but you better watch your tongue. He’s a better person than you’ll ever be, and I will not stand by when someone tries to tarnish his name.”

“I have nothing against the human,” Mitth’ras’safis said calmly. “But I am not convinced you do not.”

She tipped her head, eyes searching his face. He felt that prickly sensation again, and he took deep breaths to calm his thoughts.

“I am not sure what you mean,” she replied slowly.

“It should not concern you. You will likely never see him again.” He made a dismissive gesture. “How much Cheunh do you speak?”

Something unreadable flickered over her face. “None.”

“As expected. Do you speak Sy Bisti?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That will be useful in the future, but you need to learn some Cheunh.” He sharply looked her up and down. “Your lessons will begin after you put something more presentable on.”

She glanced down at her shirt, raising an eyebrow. Her clothes were simple, loose and plain. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with my clothes.”

On the contrary, Shaira’deri’son looked like she was wearing clothes suitable for sparring, not a major political and military negotiation. Judging by the thin scar cutting through her right eyebrow and down her cheek, she would not be opposed to such training, and that was likely what they were.

_I wonder who was behind the blow it missed._

“Right now, you are not representing anyone. Your behaviour reflects on me and I _cannot_ have you on a Mitth vessel in the wrong colours.” He searched her pale face, wondering if the fact bothered her. He found nothing. “I need you to consider that you are no longer the only one who will suffer from your errors. As I am certain you will understand, there must be no casualties in this war.”

_Or, preferably, the coming one._

Shaira’deri’son might not have understood the subtleties of politics or was simply feigning ignorance, but it was clear she knew a dismissal when she saw one.

Mitth’ras’safis inclined his head to the other door where she would find what she needed in her temporary quarters. Despite giving directions, he did not miss how her piercing eyes always tracked back to the remote resting under his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoped you liked the well-anticipated chapter, and criticism is most welcome.  
> Thank you for reading, guys!  
> <3 <3 <3  
> :D
> 
> Note: I'm updating a lot now, but it'll soon slow down. I like to foreshadow, so editing is a big part of my writing. 'Heavier' chapters will take longer to come out because I have to edit in later details. And, of course, my holidays won't last forever. :/  
> I also need to remember I have other fics, lol.  
> So basically, I'm a perfectionist, and I fuss over the tiniest details. It takes a while to edit. Plz forgive me.


	7. Consideration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! This is just a short chapter, a mere snack. Title says it all. Next chapter will be longer!
> 
> No warnings.

He hadn’t told her who she was being married off to, or what that required. She hadn’t been able to pluck it from his mind either, surprised by its complexity. And apparently she would have to wait until tomorrow to find out, as according to the Syndic, it was nearly midnight. 

How helpful of him.

No wonder almost no one had been in the corridors.

Shaira would have to recalibrate her internal clock or she was never going to be able to stay awake throughout her ‘education.’ Whatever that would truly require.

_ Though I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. _

And then she needed to consider her best form of defence, as the few thoughts she  _ had _ caught drifting from his mind had shown how opposed he was to her existence.

_ ‘It.’ How comforting, Syndic. As if I haven’t already had to fight to prove I’m not an animal. _

Yes, Mitth’ras’safis would need further evaluation.

But first she had to figure out how to get these freaking clothes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and have an awesome day!


	8. The Wolf and The Fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitth'ras'safis and Mitth'raw'nuruodo have a long-awaited conversation, doing what brothers do: casually insulting one another, throwing shade, and arguing.

“Thrass.”

Mitth’ras’safis let a small smile push at his blue cheeks. “Thrawn. I greet you.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s expression showed perhaps as much happiness as the Chiss commander would allow, which equated to very little, but to Mitth’ras’safis it told him just how pleased his brother was to finally see him.

Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s expression returned to its usual severity. “We have much to discuss.”

“Yes. Shaira’deri’son arrived an hour ago.”

His eyebrows rose, just a little, but Mitth’ras’safis knew him well enough that he could interpret it as interest. And perhaps a little wariness. Likely more on Mitth’ras’safis’s part than his own.

Who wouldn’t be wary of an assassin?

“What have you learned?”

Always one to bypass traditional greetings and move directly to the purpose of the meeting.

_Sigh._

“The assassin is more contradictory than I expected. Far more careful with its emotions and words than any other human I’ve seen.” His forehead was scrunching up in a frown before he knew what he was doing. “And disgusted with my very existence.”

“If the assassin is as disgusted as you say-” His eyebrows rose again, a bored look glazing his glowing eyes. “-then it is a miracle you possess an existence at all.”

Mitth’ras’safis snorted sharply as if trying to drive his irritation out his nose. “I’m not _exaggerating,”_ he snapped.

His brother blinked back.

Mitth’ras’safis’s jaw tightened. He drew in a slow breath, clasping his hands behind his back. Willing the tension to fall from his face.

Disapproving eyes crawled over his skin.

“I apologize for my outburst.” He straightened, drawing his shoulders back. “But _don’t_ test me, Thrawn. I’m not in the mood for one of your games.”

“Noted.” He threw a disinterested look over his shoulder as if checking no one was there. “I’ll rephrase. The assassin will be openly expressing any disgust in an attempt to confuse your attempts at interrogation. Whether genuine or not, I doubt it’s without purpose.”

“I know,” Mitth’ras’safis hissed. “I constantly negotiate with the Syndicure, if you weren’t already aware.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo ignored the jab. “I don’t doubt your abilities. I’m merely concerned about this assassin’s-” His eyes narrowed. _“-mind tricks.”_

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Said to only work on the weak-minded. I’ve read what there is. And I was watching it, it didn’t show any clear signs of attempted influence. It’s entirely possible, but I would have noticed if it tried to pry my mind open.”

“Perhaps.” He tipped his head, considering with an intense gaze. “Perhaps not.”

“Surely something like that would be _obvious.”_

“Doubtful.”

“Well then, _Commander._ Would you like to enlighten me?” His tone dropped. “Or would you like me to endlessly contemplate this mess we have ourselves in?”

“It is far from a mess, Syndic,” he shot back, his voice completely calm and void of emotion. “I am confident it will yield results, in time. Patience will be the key. But you must be more welcoming, or I will find my work to be more… tedious.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s voice drifted off in thought.

“As if the Syndicure hasn’t purposely put you in an impossible situation.”

“It is not impossible, Thrass.” He sounded bored again. “It is quite achievable.”

“You haven’t met it yet.”

Commander Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s eyes hardened, voice soft. “Which is why we’re here.”

His heart rate rose a few notches in reflex.

_You worry me, Thrawn. Even after all we’ve been through._

He knew Thrawn would never leave him to freeze in the storm, but sometimes, just sometimes, he let himself wonder.

He’d never want to be on Thrawn’s bad side.

“I’m not sure what exactly I should tell you,” Mitth’ras’safis began, his face giving away nothing. Cool and unaffected. “It’s just a strange human-”

_Or half-human._

“-half-human,” he corrected himself. “With a hatred for politicians and a keen eye for details. It is definitely an assassin. Made for violence. The New Republic is right to fear it and what it represents.”

Its words still echoed. _“I pity anyone who_ dares.”

Who would dare? Not the New Republic, obviously. No, they were quite eager to get rid of it.

_Why? The New Republic is preparing for war as much as we are. They need every last one of their resources._

_And why didn’t the assassin attempt an escape?_

“Yes, but what do _you_ fear?” Mitth’raw’nuruodo asked, his piercing eyes meeting Mitth’ras’safis’s guarded gaze. “Something more is troubling you, Thrass.”

He breathed in deeply, hardening his resolve. He’d had an hour to recover from the assassin’s outburst, he should be able to last a few more.

_Hopefully._

“...maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

“We have faced greater risks. War requires them. No, that's not quite what's on your mind.”

Mitth’ras’safis did not reply immediately.

_Do I need to voice my fears? Or is this another game for him to cite my weaknesses?_

Mitth’ras’safis breathed out. “I fear the Ascendancy’s ability to keep it under control.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo raised an eyebrow, almost challengingly. “Do you believe I am not suited to the task? Or do you doubt my choice?”

“It was your choice to make,” he said flatly. “And now you’ll suffer for it.”

“I could not afford to lose my position.” His eyes darkened, pulsing with a deep, hidden rage. “Not over something so _obscure.”_

“I warned you, but did you listen?”

 _Do you_ ever _listen?_

“I don’t care for useless tradition. I have made my choice, and I will succeed. It is what the Ascendancy wishes.”

He sighed silently.

_One day your pride will no longer support you, little brother. And I’m not sure I can save you when that happens._

“Yes, but _I_ wish for my little brother to be safe.” His clasped fingers tightened. “With an assassin, your safety is concerning.”

“I am perfectly capable of staying unharmed,” he assured, his confidence radiating. It would have been contagious if Mitth’ras’safis wasn’t already well-used to it.

_How should I word this?_

“Shaira’deri’son is not a Chiss, Thrawn. I don’t know what its motives are, but I doubt they align with yours. It's too- reckless isn’t the right word. But chaotic. It's too chaotic for you or anyone else to really know what it wants. Other than what it had told me, I’m not sure why it hasn’t tried to retake its freedom. Even when the supposed opportunity was presented.”

His eyes flickered with interest. “What has the assassin told you?”

“Apparently, it’s more interested in fulfilling a promise and dissolving its past than threatening us. Though, whether genuine or not, that assassin is the very _definition_ of threatening.” Mitth’ras’safis frowned. “I lose my point. I couldn’t tell if the assassin was genuine. I’d be more inclined to believe its word is worth only that of any usual manipulation, but it’s too early for me to know.”

“Five days should earn you enough time.” His hand drifted to his chin thoughtfully, eyes tilted to the ceiling. “I want you to find out if the assassin regrets its actions. That should be a start to determining its true character. Provided you’ll be able to tell the difference between deceit and truth, of course.”

_Finally, a goal. I was beginning to think someone was trying to impersonate you._

“There is another way that could help us,” Mitth’ras’safis suggested, a little of the tension dissolving from his shoulders. “The assassin has a close friend by the name of Lieutenant Nick Murphy. He should be able to offer answers I cannot.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s eyes narrowed. “Its friend accompanied it?”

“I doubt it was anything significant. The New Republic allowed a choice to who would lead the mission to avoid any unnecessary conflict. I’d think the Lieutenant only wanted to make sure his friend arrived safely.” He paused. “There have been some… incidents.”

“To be expected.”

“The only thing I find strange is that Shaira’deri’son was completely uninformed. I would have thought Lieutenant Murphy would have said _something.”_

“Perhaps he did not wish to anger it.”

Mitth’ras’safis thought back to their meeting, its eyes burned into his memory. _Yes, I can see where that reasoning came from. I should have spoken to the Lieutenant myself and avoided that… situation._

He brushed his arm lightly as if the prickling sensation was still there, that same worry bubbling beneath his skin. “That is reasonable.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s gaze flicked down to his hand’s movement, and then back up to his face. “You never said how well your meeting went, Thrass.”

His lips thinned as he sighed through his nose. “Ar’alani would have been better suited to this than I am.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo looked at him expectantly.

“While I couldn’t tell if it could read my mind, I think a stronger sedative needs to be used. The assassin had faked over-sedation to push my guard down, when it seems its sedatives are barely effective. That could mean its other drugs only have a minimal effect as well.”

_Assuming it’s merely the assassin and not the New Republic attempting to kill me. Though I would be surprised if that were true._

“Clarr’ele’ocisia will take interest in that,” Mitth’raw’nuruodo noted. “But it could prove to be a danger to you. For now, I recommend a milder approach. Was the assassin angry?”

He snorted. “An understatement, Thrawn.”

“To be expected. Though I would have thought Shaira’deri’son would be accustomed to having its choices dictated, considering the Emperor’s attitude to insubordination. Perhaps the assassin was not as controlled as I’d assumed.”

“The assassin would be used to having control over the people around it.”

“Only to a point. And I doubt the assassin will attempt anger or control as its base strategy here. Trustworthiness will be more likely, if it is smart.” Mitth’raw’nuruodo frowned thoughtfully. “Shaira’deri’son won’t attempt anything obvious. Not if it wants you to believe its word.”

“If it cares.”

“If it was as angry as you said, it will have some form of pride. Someone who once held rank at such a level will not be egoless.”

_Reminds me of someone._

Mitth’ras’safis cast him an unimpressed look. _“Evidently._ So, what if its promise _was_ genuine? While it’s almost humorous to think of a former assassin being even remotely trustworthy, I still have to consider it.”

“Let me remind you, Thrass, that just because Shaira’deri’son is a _former_ assassin, it doesn’t make it any less dangerous. For now, approach this as you would if it were a false promise. If the assassin is trustworthy, it will be revealed over time.” He narrowed his eyes. “But I would recommend being cautious. Shaira’deri’son has more experience with this than you do, and it will use that.”

The assassin’s voice echoed. _“Boy, you’ve never_ seen _reckless…”_

If Shaira’deri’son wasn’t reckless, he didn’t know what was.

“Don’t insult me, little brother. I’m being cautious, I just don’t have enough information to do so properly.” His fingers tightened their grip. “I’m more worried about _you._ Your pride could get in the way of your own success.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo raised an eyebrow. “My disagreement with the Patriarchs doesn’t make me prideful. I simply believe they are approaching this the wrong way.”

“That was… surprisingly diplomatic of you. So, what’s _your_ plan, then?” He leaned forward, interest sparking his eyes to a dancing red. “Seeing you’ll be stuck with an assassin for eternity.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s guarded gaze felt heavy, his voice weighted. “It would be best if you worry about your own plan.”

Mitth’ras’safis frowned, a crease of anxiety overtaking his previous calm. “You’re not going to… Thrawn- you won’t… take it that far, will you? I know it’s an assassin, but…”

A sudden queasiness overtook him. A nausea. He broke off with a grimace.

Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s gaze took on a dark edge. “I will do what I must. I doubt it will go so far, but if it does, what is necessary will be the first of my priorities.”

_I understand that, but…_

“I know you’re perfectly capable of it, but there are other ways for it to become a useful tool. As you said before, I’ll need to study its motives-”

“You will, yes,” Mitth’raw’nuruodo said. But the dark glitter wasn’t gone. “Perhaps I should clarify. As you said, the assassin’s goals will not align with the Ascendancy’s, and they will not align with mine. So I will do whatever is necessary to alter those goals to my satisfaction. Considering Shaira’deri’son’s background, mere subtlety will only heighten anxiety, so more… complex methods will be required.”

_But how do you defeat an assassin?_

“And what will those be?”

“In time, Thrass. I need more information.”

“Which I must supply you with.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo inclined his head. “Of course, I have other means of acquiring the information I need.”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve decided to request the Patriarchs.”

“I have.”

_“Thrawn!”_

“As I said, I disagree with their methods.”

“Thrawn…”

_Why do you do this to me?_

“I will not include you in my request.”

“That’s not- I just cleared you for your last mess! Don’t go and _destroy everything!”_ Mitth’ras’safis pressed a cool hand to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “Can we continue, please? I still need to sleep.”

Mitth’raw’nuruodo raised an eyebrow.

 _“Don’t_ try to reassure me, either. We both know you don’t have any more control over this situation than I do.” He stretched his eyes back open with some difficulty, muttering under his breath. _“Can anyone in politics sleep?”_

“Perhaps if the Syndicure could reach a sensible conclusion without arguing, they’d wake up with an improved mood.” Mitth’raw’nuruodo looked down at him blankly. “Of course, that would be too difficult.”

Mitth’ras’safis narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps if the Defence Fleet wasn’t so concerned with merit, they’d be pursuing the Grysk. But that would be too much to ask.”

“As you have certainly noticed, I have been occupied with _other_ matters. I’m sure Mitth’eli’alaora understands.”

“You know what my wife thinks of you. She was ready to dangle you in a crevasse when she heard what was being added to our family.”

“Tell her-”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well then perhaps your daughter will tell her.”

“Thrawn, I swear if Thelia finds out you’ve been playing _se’carru ce chi ilela_ with her child, I’m jumping in that crevasse with you.”

“Mitth’eli’alaora has reason to be proud. Her daughter’s skills in the game are very impressive.”

Mitth’ras’safis groaned. “I don’t think she’ll take that as a compliment.”

“No, she takes everything I say as a curse.” Mitth’raw’nuruodo clasped his chin, frown thoughtful. “Will they be at the Signing?”

“Of course. It would be rude to miss it.” Mitth’ras’safis mirrored his frown. “Why?”

“Perhaps someone of similar age will put the assassin at ease.”

_What-?_

Mitth’ras’safis’s frown crashed violently down into a blazing glare. “My daughter isn’t going _near_ that thing. _Do you understand?”_

“If your family is attending the ceremony, I doubt they’ll be able to avoid it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll keep it _occupied.”_ Mitth’ras’safis leaned forward. “Considering you’re _also_ at the centre of the ceremony.”

“You cannot avoid what’s out of your control. While marriage is not something I’m familiar with, I’m certain Shaira’deri’son would be more comfortable with other people to turn to. Your daughter will appear to be more trustworthy, an advantage neither you nor I should be willing to lose.”

Mitth’ras’safis was silent for a moment, his mouth set in a hard line.

It dawned.

“Oh, I _see.”_ Mitth’ras’safis’s snarl burst into an evil smile. “Thrawn, you need _marital advice!”_

He ignored his brother’s strange look.

Mitth'ras'safis clasped his hands in delight. “Let’s start with the basics…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that was a juicy chapter! These two were hilarious to write, but I'd be lying if I said I haven't rewritten it at least twice.
> 
> I have news! I'm back at school. Big sad. Chapter updates will slow down as my brain slowly fries, homework piles up, and assessments come knocking at my door.
> 
> ALSO!  
> I would like to thank a certain someone (they know who they are) for giving me the idea that was the end of this chapter.  
> It was so fun to write.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Have an AWESOME week, and I hope this year will go well for you! Criticism is most welcome. :D


	9. To Have Hope (Or Deny its Glow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING:**  
>  Implied Suicidal Thoughts
> 
> The choices we consider are merely the ones we fear. Otherwise, if things were so bright, would we need to decide between the good and the bad?  
> Surely, we would choose the one to carry us forward.  
> Right?

Shaira Derison had a choice.

The first was short, easy, and perhaps what she wanted. It meant she wouldn’t have to do it herself.

The second was life-long, hard, and unsure in its details. But there was hope.

It was dangerous to have hope.

She had, of course, used hope against people. Had them believe their allies would come to rescue them. In hope, they were blinded. Blinded to realizing that the people seeking to rescue them would soon share their grave. 

She had also crushed hope, watched the light fade out of their eyes when they realized _no one_ was coming to save them.

These tactics had succeeded, again and again and again, until she came to understand that _she_ had also been deceived with this… this lie.

The Emperor had used this hope against _her,_ had kept her in a cage. Both real and imagined, it didn’t matter if she could grip its bars with her hands. She hadn't dared make a wrong move, hadn't dared think about defecting without fear lurking in the shadows behind her back.

Maybe I'm the only thing in that cage, she’d thought. Maybe I’ve let fear become a person to me.

As if she could ask it if her friends were safe. If they were still alive. To make sure she hadn’t failed, hadn’t stepped into the soft dirt marking _their_ graves, hadn’t left them to become playthings for the Emperor’s interests.

For his _experiments._

Maybe I can keep them alive if I do what he wants, she’d thought. Maybe I can keep them _safe._

It was dangerous to have hope.

Shaira continued to stare at the ceiling, feeling her skin crawl and prickle. 

Feeling her hope drain away.

_I need to sleep._

But she couldn’t sleep, not when fear and anger and hatred bubbled like a witch’s cauldron in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another snacc.  
> My day was complete trash, may or may not have had a breakdown, and hellooooo insomnia. I'll post more when I can, but there are other things I need to get around to.  
> (Like commenting on that fic I love)  
> (And doing that homework I do not love)
> 
> I hope you have a good day, and a better week. Cheers!  
> Thank you all for reading, and stay safe, my bros! I couldn't do this without you.  
> :D


	10. The Curse of Sisyphus' Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS:**  
>  Disturbing imagery, mild gore, oh my god the hands have MOUTHS.
> 
> The guilty, though their deeds may never shine, still pay for their crimes in the nights they spend sleepless.

**Hours Later**

The bed was too soft. She was sinking into it as if it was mud. White, silky mud.

Her breathing was short and shallow. Wheezing thinly in and out. Billowing in the cold as a pale mist.

Shaira couldn’t bring herself to sleep in a bed with blankets. Not in her quarters in the _Ice Tempest_ or her room in the _Floe Wraith._

Maybe it was because the floor was the only thing she could sleep on when curled up in pain, ripple after ripple of nausea and trips to the refresher taking their toll. Maybe it was because she was sick of trying to wash the blood stains out of her sheets when she ripped her stitches, or from her claws deciding to tear open her fingers in the middle of the night.

Or maybe it was because she’d become too used to sleeping in cells. Maybe she was terrified she’d become tangled in the sheets when she needed to run. When she needed to fight or struggle or sink her teeth into someone’s arm.

Even though she was now here, far stronger, far _away..._

The bed still felt wrong.

The cloth was too heavy, too suffocating, and she’d rather freeze than feel its clinging caress.

She didn’t want to think about that cell, but it was already swirling through her thoughts. The smell of blood. She could almost see it splattered in the shadows of her new room. Dark and sticky.

Was it her own or someone else’s?

She squeezed her eyes shut.

_When I wish for peace, it is never there, is it?_

* * *

The sea pulsed with emerald and the white spit of wrath.

She put her head under the water and breathed deeply. It smelt like her mother’s perfume.

The sea bled crimson and hissed like a rattlesnake.

She plunged her hands in the water, frantically telling it to stop. Stop moving!

And she tried to stitch the bleeding, her fingers dragging the waves together like flesh, shouting: "Stop!"

It didn’t stop.

And her skin was slippery with the ocean's blood as she pulled at the water, saying _stop, stop, stop._

But the bleeding wouldn’t stop, and it kept hissing at her, crawling away, tugging at her knees.

The more she tried, the more the green was choked away, the more her white skin was drenched in red cherry, the more she wiped it from her eyes and shouted at the sea.

And the waves were hot. Blistering and boiling with white froth. Her body burned and seared as bubbling water ate away at her fingers. Like acid.

Still she dug her hands into the sea, gathering together the waves as they oozed hot, pulsing blood, and they screamed back.

_Let me go! Let me go!_

Shaira would not let go.

She could still smell her mother’s perfume over the scent of charred flesh.

So she would not let go.

* * *

They had no faces.

Gloved hands reached down, tugging at her, fingers digging into her arms. Cold metal under her numb feet, wires and tiny tubes strapped to her chest. Disappearing beneath her skin.

_They had no faces._

She lashed out.

Fingers tightened, splitting through her skin. Ripping open her arms.

She saw bones, blood streaming down her hands, down her chest. Like a blanket.

Black.

Shaira shoved back. White coats crackled beneath her palms. Went _through_ them, like they were the ghosts haunting her prison, cursed to the walls. Black fingerprints smeared the fabric, and distantly, Shaira thought:

_This isn’t right._

But she couldn’t say it out loud. She tried, her voice rasped.

Her words failed.

As she pushed, as she held the creatures back, as the walls pooled down around her and wound durasteel fingers across her ankles, the hands kept coming. Nails tugging at her scars, splitting them like scissors through paper. Healed wounds unhealed, old cuts unravelling to hiss black blood. Fingers clutched at her everywhere, pulling, ripping pieces of her away.

She shouted, her throat raw, but sound did not pluck the strings of her voice.

She shouted, but she could not hear it.

And some had mouths and some had claws and some had eyes, palms not palms but the faces she couldn’t see, hands like heads but mindless and yet with expression.

And the hands with mouths bit down with fangs and the hands with claws split her like she had seams and the hands with eyes dragged themselves to her face and cried yellow.

Bled it, like gold could be found in any of their rotten, festering eyes.

She mouthed _leave me, leave me_ but her words were only the blood falling from her lips, black. Black like oil, like tar, slicking her naked body as if it could cover the holes where the hands had torn clumps of her away.

And the hands with mouths spoke to her, as her black blood sung the ode of wasted life and the missing chunks of her flesh writhed on the floor. They spoke, tongues shaping a creeping whisper.

_Never speak of this._

* * *

_Do not give darkness a name, for whenever it crawls back, it will haunt you. Day after day, night after night. Neither running nor hiding can help you._

_You’ve created a voice for it to echo in your head, a voice that will not cease as long as you live against its wishes. Forever its eyes will follow you, cursing your dreams, mocking your hopes. Wanting to turn your soul to ashes._

_You will never please it._

_Sometimes it is best to remain ignorant, for knowledge…_

_Is why you scream._

Shaira’s stomach twisted coldly, and she sighed, arm folded over her eyes.

She sat up, joints cracking, and blinked hard. Her eyelids were sticky, almost sealed shut. Dried tears pulled over her jaw as she flexed it.

Her fingers ran over the bumps on her cheek, over the scar twisting down from her right eyebrow. It read like braille: _A missed blow._

As she shifted atop her blankets, her skin came alive with itching needles and insect legs, crawling down her spine and across her skin, fading in and out as she shuffled onto the floor. Her visible skin was flecked with purplish lumps, white carvings, greyish spirals and spatters, silvery lines, pale speckled with pink.

The worst pain rippled through her right leg. Ice shards and old embers, raw burning, making her toes clench hard.

Her teeth were locked together.

She forced her thumb deep into her calf, feeling a little of the pain ease off. The hiss torn from her throat splattered flatly against the walls.

Shaira filled her empty chest with shaky breaths. Shut out the whispery ringing in her ears and the punching of her heart into her ribcage.

The ship hummed lowly.

The pain had failed to distract her.

She pulled her arms up high, her muscles squeezing tightly as she stretched. They begged for release, for violence, for bruises and scratches and scrapes and the overwhelming burn of routine exercise.

Or what she kept as a routine, one her body no longer recognized as torture.

The body is a tool, she’d tell herself. Tools aren’t supposed to feel pain.

Shaira’s knuckles searched the wall for a light switch or a button, her fingers curled in so her fingertips rested against her palm. As if she was afraid she’d mangle it or stripe blood along the walls.

Or maybe she was just afraid Mitth’ras’safis would see her claws.

The light switch should have been next to the door, but she encountered a cold, slippery surface.

 _Not that I need lights,_ she mouthed to herself.

In the corners of the room, there glowed a very faint light, slightly bluish, as if to simulate planetary darkness. It was enough for her to see by, though if it was enough for normal vision, she no longer knew. Did it matter?

Everything looked the same as she had left it.

After flailing around some more, Shaira rolled her eyes and settled with her failure to carry out the simplest of tasks.

She sighed.

_So, you can design your own fighter but can’t find the light switch? Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic._

There was a rhythmic tapping on the door.

Perhaps it was a good thing, to stop her thoughts drifting down that path. The past.

“Yeah?” She winced at the crackle.

Mitth’ras’safis’s voice was muffled. _“Are you clothed?”_

“Yes.”

_So, he isn’t currently accessing any surveillance? Or is he afraid he’ll see more than my unfortunate face?_

The door hissed open. She was momentarily blinded. Not by Mitth’ras’safis of course, he wasn’t that stunning. She hadn’t seen it when she arrived, it hadn’t been important, but the lights were a strange pale yellow. Not as strong as those on ISDs.

_Mercifully._

The door to the fancy meeting room had already been opened, leaving no doubt as to where he intended her to go.

“Syndic.” She blinked to adjust before dipping her head, the extra second a moment to think. “Are there any particular morning greetings I should know?”

He regarded her carefully. “Of course. The most common is _bieh’ochi ce vicasi._ It directly translates to ‘warmth’s beginning.’”

She mouthed it to herself.

“Is there a history to the greeting?”

Mitth’ras’safis touched his lips with two fingers, in what she assumed was a gesture of sincerity or solemnity. Perhaps both? “Yes. Because the Chiss homeworld Csilla is an ice planet, wishing someone to begin their day with warmth is a sincere wish for them to stay well and content.”

_Perhaps there is sadness connected to the freezing of their planet? Interesting that they have body language for something like that. Csilla must be deeply important to them, more so than one would think._

“Noted, thank you.” 

“For future reference, _ca’ais_ is yes, _uru_ is no, and _ca’acest_ is thank you.”

 _"Ca'acest,_ then. I’ll need those words.” Shaira’s blank stare drifted along as she walked out the door, silky black robes clinging to her skin.

* * *

Shaira’deri’son peered past him, her mismatched eyes considering as if she were reviewing a game of _se’carru ce chi ilela,_ and not a table set with a common morning meal.

The corner of her gaze always lay on him, calculated, unreadable. Her relaxed stance did not fool him.

_Always alert._

It was interesting how she had given respect, though only a small dip of her head, almost a nod. If disgust was on her mind, she did not let it show through. Her expression remained an impenetrable wall, plastered with mildness.

The first step she took and something looked wrong.

Her face stayed perfectly neutral.

Mitth’ras’safis paused. “Are you injured?”

She raised an eyebrow, failing to conceal her slanted posture. As if she thought the eyebrow would be enough to distract him.

 _“Are you injured?”_ he repeated firmly.

“Not recently,” she said at last, hesitant.

“Would it be better if a _medic_ evaluated you?” he threatened.

She brushed it off, but he detected something else. Maybe a grimace, maybe a hint of fear. “It’s old; you might as well ignore it. It isn’t going away.”

_Maybe her injuries will offer clues. Even if they’re only for Thrawn._

He switched to his Syndic tone, drawing his shoulders back. Leaving no doubt she wasn’t in a position to argue. “You have a scheduled appointment in two days. You will have it seen to then.” 

“Very well.”

Mitth’ras’safis blinked in surprise at her easy agreement, but quickly hid it away for later thought. He gestured to the table mildly. “As you can see, my people begin every morning with a small meal. It is often hot, and contains more spices than the average human is accustomed to. I have had your meal made with only mild seasonings.” 

He walked past her, wondering if she would follow or simply observe. Trying to ignore the fact that _my people_ could very soon become _our people._

He continued. “The soup is accompanied by a dish of _csalith_ root. The root is a common edible plant grown for household use. It can be ground into flour or eaten boiled. The leftover water is drunk with the meal to ensure none of the nutrients are wasted.”

She nodded and took a few steps to avoid their gap becoming rude. “It’s good to see your people avoid wastage.”

He noted the generous distance she kept between them, searching again for any disgust in her eyes. “Your people do not?”

“No.”

“It is our tradition to use everything we can when it is available. Nothing is left to spoil. I am glad you appreciate such a tradition.”

Her eyebrow rose again as if to say _“Are you?”_

“If we have the time, I can show you how to make this dish.”

“That would be useful, _ca’acest.”_

 _Perhaps I judged her-_ He cut himself off, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. _It._

But it didn’t stop his voice echoing in the back of his mind, berating his ignorance. 

_This creature could not possibly be a woman,_ it hissed at him. _Are you forgetting what it’s done?_

Shaira’deri’son limped to the table. She tried to hide it, but the pain bled through her eyes. Only slightly, a faint glimmer, but enough for someone like him to see. It switched to relief almost as soon as she was seated.

It felt strange to doubt his own voice.

He settled across from her, pushing down the unease blooming in his chest like an unwanted flower. “Now, let us begin with the Houses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> Sisyphus was a man Zeus cursed to roll a boulder up a hill for eternity, so I thought it would be a fitting allusion for Shaira's internal punishment.
> 
> I hope your day's going good! Have an AWESOME week, and stay safe!  
> :D


End file.
